THE  BAR  SINISTER 


s 


Miss  Dorothy  snatches  me  up  and  kisses  me 
between  the  ears. 


THE  NOVELS  AND  STORIES  OF 
RICHARD  HARDING  DAVIS 


THE  BAR  SINISTER 


BY 


RICHARD   HARDING   DAVIS 


WITH    AN    INTRODUCTION    BY 

WINSTON  CHURCHILL 


ILLUSTRATED 


NEW  YORK 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

1920 


•The  Bar  Sinister,"  copyright,  1902,  by  CHARLES  SCRIB- 
NEK'S  SONS;  the  other  stories  in  this  volume  from 
"  Once  Upon  a  Time."  copyright,  1910,  by  CHARLES 
SCRIBNER'S  SONS. 


COPYRIGHT,  1916,  BY 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


RICHARD  HARDING  DAVIS 

ON  that  day  when  I  read  of  Mr.  Davis's  sudden 
death,  there  came  back  to  me  a  vivid  memory  of 
another  day,  some  eighteen  years  ago,  when  I  first 
met  him,  shortly  after  the  publication  of  my  first 
novel.  I  was  paying  an  over-Sunday  visit  to  Marion, 
that  quaint  waterside  resort  where  Mr.  Davis  lived 
for  many  years,  and  with  which  his  name  is  asso 
ciated.  On  the  Monday  morning,  as  the  stage 
started  out  for  the  station,  a  young  man  came  run 
ning  after  it,  caught  it,  and  sat  down  in  the  only 
empty  place — beside  me.  He  was  Richard  Harding 
Davis.  I  recognized  him,  nor  shall  I  forget  that 
peculiar  thrill  I  experienced  at  finding  myself  in 
actual,  physical  contact  with  an  author.  And  that 
this  author  should  be  none  other  than  the  creator  of 
Gallegher,  prepossessing,  vigorous,  rather  than  a 
dry  and  elderly  recluse,  made  my  excitement  the 
keener.  It  happened  also,  after  entering  the  smok 
ing-car,  that  the  remaining  vacant  seat  was  at  my 
side,  and  here  Mr.  Davis  established  himself.  He 
looked  at  me,  he  asked  if  my  name  was  Winston 
Churchill,  he  said  he  had  read  my  book.  How  he 
guessed  my  identity  I  did  not  discover.  But  the 

v      962^56 


RICHARD   HARDING   DAVIS 

recollection  of  our  talk,  the  strong  impression  I  then 
received  of  Mr.  Davis's  vitality  and  personality,  the 
liking  I  conceived  for  him — these  have  neither 
changed  nor  faded  with  the  years,  and  I  recall  with 
gratitude  to-day  the  kindliness,  the  sense  of  fellow 
ship  always  so  strong  in  him  that  impelled  him  to 
speak  as  he  did.  A  month  before  he  died,  when  I 
met  him  on  the  train  going  to  Mt.  Kisco,  he  had 
not  changed.  His  enthusiasms,  his  vigor,  his  fine 
passions,  his  fondness  for  his  friends,  these,  nor  the 
joy  he  found  in  the  pursuit  of  his  profession,  had 
not  faded.  And  there  come  to  me  now,  as  I  think 
of  him  filled  with  life,  flashes  from  his  writings  that 
have  moved  me,  and  move  me  indescribably  still. 
"Le  Style"  as  Rolland  remarks,  "c'est  fame"  It 
was  so  in  Mr.  Davis's  case.  He  had  the  rare  faculty 
of  stirring  by  a  phrase  the  imaginations  of  men,  of 
including  in  a  phrase  a  picture,  an  event — a  cata 
clysm.  Such  a  phrase  was  that  in  which  he  de 
scribed  the  entry  of  German  hosts  into  Brussels. 
He  was  not  a  man,  when  enlisted  in  a  cause,  to 
count  the  cost  to  himself.  Many  causes  will  miss 
him,  and  many  friends,  and  many  admirers,  yet  his 
personality  remains  with  us  forever,  in  his  work. 

WINSTON  CHURCHILL. 


VI 


CONTENTS 

Richard  Harding  Davis Winston  Churchill 


PAGE 

THE    BAR    SINISTER 3 

A    QUESTION   OF    LATITUDE 56 

THE    SPY 88 

THE   MESSENGERS 121 

A    WASTED   DAY 143 

A    CHARMED    LIFE 167 

THE    AMATEUR 189 

THE   MAKE-BELIEVE   MAN 226 

PEACE   MANOEUVRES 276 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

MISS  DOROTHY  SNATCHES  ME  UP  AND  KISSES 

ME   BETWEEN   THE   EARS       ....     Frontispiece 

ncnm 

PACE 

"I    SUPPOSE    I'M   THE   UGLIEST   BULL-DOG   IN 

AMERICA" 22 

"THEN,  HOW  DID  YOU  SUPPOSE  YOUR  SISTER 

WAS   GOING   TO    READ    IT?" Io8 

"I  THINK,"  SAID  AINSLEY,  "THEY  HAVE  LOST 

THEIR   WAY" 136 

"DO  I  LOOK  AS  EASY  AS  THAT,  OR  ARE  YOU 

JUST  NATURALLY  FOOLISH?"  .  2l6 


THE  BAR  SINISTER 


PREFACE 

WHEN  this  story  first  appeared,  the  writer  received  letters 
of  two  kinds,  one  asking  a  question  and  the  other  making  n 
statement.  The  question  was,  whether  there  \<?z$  anj  founds 
tion  of  truth  in  the  story;  the  statement  challenge4  bjrn  to  sa# 
that  there  was.  The  letters  seemed  to  shov  'tHat  Via^e;£  pnV 
portion  of  readers  prefer  their  dose  of  fiction  with  a  sweetening 
of  fact.  This  is  written  to  furnish  that  condiment,  and  to 
answer  the  question  and  the  statement. 

In  the  dog  world,  the  original  of  the  bull-terrier  in  the  story 
is  known  as  Edgewood  Cold  Steel  and  to  his  intimates  as  "  Kid/' 
His  father  was  Lord  Minto,  a  thoroughbred  bull-terrier,  well 
known  in  Canada,  but  the  story  of  Kid's  life  is  that  his  mother 
was  a  black-and-tan  named  Vic.  She  was  a  lady  of  doubtful 
pedigree.  Among  her  offspring  by  Lord  Minto,  so  I  have  been 
often  informed  by  many  Canadian  dog-fanciers,  breeders,  and 
exhibitors,  was  the  only  white  puppy,  Kid,  in  a  litter  of  black- 
and-tans.  He  made  his  first  appearance  in  the  show  world  in 
1900  in  Toronto,  where,  under  the  judging  of  Mr.  Charles  H. 
Mason,  he  was  easily  first.  During  that  year,  when  he  came 
to  our  kennels,  and  in  the  two  years  following,  he  carried  off 
many  blue  ribbons  and  cups  at  nearly  every  first-class  show  in 
the  country.  The  other  dog,  "Jimmy  Jocks,"  who  in  the  book 
was  his  friend  and  mentor,  was  in  real  life  his  friend  and  com 
panion,  Woodcote  Jumbo,  or  "  Jaggers,"  an  aristocratic  son  of 
a  long  line  of  English  champions.  He  has  gone  to  that  place 
where  some  day  all  good  dogs  must  go. 

In  this  autobiography  I  have  tried  to  describe  Kid  as  he 
really  is,  and  this  year,  when  he  again  strives  for  blue  ribbons, 
I  trust,  should  the  gentle  reader  see  him  at  any  of  the  bench- 
shows,  he  will  give  him  a  friendly  pat  and  make  his  acquaint 
ance.  He  will  find  his  advances  met  with  a  polite  and  gentle 
courtesy. 

THE  AUTHOR. 


THE  BAR  SINISTER 

PART  I 

THE  Master  was  walking  most  unsteady,  his 
legs  tripping  each  other.  After  the  fifth  or 
sixth  round,  my  legs  often  go  the  same  way. 

But  even  when  the  Master's  legs  bend  and 
twist  a  bit,  you  mustn't  think  he  can't  reach 
you.  Indeed,  that  is  the  time  he  kicks  most 
frequent.  So  I  kept  behind  him  in  the  shadow, 
or  ran  in  the  middle  of  the  street.  He  stopped 
at  many  public-houses  with  swinging  doors, 
those  doors  that  are  cut  so  high  from  the  side 
walk  that  you  can  look  in  under  them,  and  see 
if  the  Master  is  inside.  At  night  when  I  peep 
beneath  them  the  man  at  the  counter  will  see 
me  first  and  say,  "Here's  the  Kid,  Jerry,  come 
to  take  you  home.  Get  a  move  on  you,"  and 
the  Master  will  stumble  out  and  follow  me. 
It's  lucky  for  us  I'm  so  white,  for  no  matter 
how  dark  the  night,  he  can  always  see  me  ahead, 
just  out  of  reach  of  his  boot.  At  night  the 
Master  certainly  does  see  most  amazing.  Some 
times  he  sees  two  or  four  of  me,  and  walks  in  a 
circle,  so  that  I  have  to  take  him  by  the  leg  of 

3 


THE  BAR  SINISTER 

his  trousers  and  lead  him  into  the  right  road. 
One  night,  when  he  was  very  nasty-tempered 
and  I  was  coaxing  him  along,  two  men  passed  us 
and  one  of  them  says,  "Look  at  that  brute!" 
and  the  other  asks  "Which?"  and  they  both 
laugh.  The  Master,  he  cursed  them  good  and 
proper. 

This  night,  whenever  we  stopped  at  a  public- 
house,  the  Master's  pals  left  it  and  went  on  with 
us  to  the  next.  They  spoke  quite  civil  to  me, 
and  when  the  Master  tried  a  flying  kick,  they 
gives  him  a  shove.  "Do  you  want  we  should 
lose  our  money?"  says  the  pals. 

I  had  had  nothing  to  eat  for  a  day  and  a 
night,  and  just  before  we  set  out  the  Master 
gives  me  a  wash  under  the  hydrant.  When 
ever  I  am  locked  up  until  all  the  slop-pans  in 
our  alley  are  empty,  and  made  to  take  a  bath, 
and  the  Master's  pals  speak  civil,  and  feel  my 
ribs,  I  know  something  is  going  to  happen. 
And  that  night,  when  every  time  they  see  a 
policeman  under  a  lamp-post,  they  dodged 
across  the  street,  and  when  at  the  last  one  of 
them  picked  me  up  and  hid  me  under  his  jacket, 
I  began  to  tremble;  for  I  knew  what  it  meant. 
It  meant  that  I  was  to  fight  again  for  the 
Master. 

I  don't  fight  because  I  like  it.  I  fight  because 
if  I  didn't  the  other  dog  would  find  my  throat, 

4 


THE  BAR  SINISTER 

and  the  Master  would  lose  his  stakes,  and  I 
would  be  very  sorry  for  him  and  ashamed. 
Dogs  can  pass  me  and  I  can  pass  dogs,  and  I'd 
never  pick  a  fight  with  none  of  them.  When  I 
see  two  dogs  standing  on  their  hind-legs  in  the 
streets,  clawing  each  other's  ears,  and  snapping 
for  each  other's  windpipes,  or  howling  and 
swearing  and  rolling  in  the  mud,  I  feel  sorry 
they  should  act  so,  and  pretend  not  to  notice. 
If  he'd  let  me,  I'd  like  to  pass  the  time  of  day 
with  every  dog  I  meet.  But  there's  something 
about  me  that  no  nice  dog  can  abide.  When  I 
trot  up  to  nice  dogs,  nodding  and  grinning,  to 
make  friends,  they  always  tell  me  to  be  off. 
"Go  to  the  devil!"  they  bark  at  me;  "Get 
out !"  and  when  I  walk  away  they  shout  "mon 
grel,"  and  "gutter-dog,"  and  sometimes,  after 
my  back  is  turned,  they  rush  me.  I  could  kill 
most  of  them  with  three  shakes,  breaking  the 
back-bone  of  the  little  ones,  and  squeezing  the 
throat  of  the  big  ones.  But  what's  the  good? 
They  are  nice  dogs;  that's  why  I  try  to  make  up 
to  them,  and  though  it's  not  for  them  to  say  it, 
I  am  a  street-dog,  and  if  I  try  to  push  into  the 
company  of  my  betters,  I  suppose  it's  their  right 
to  teach  me  my  place. 

Of  course,  they  don't  know  I'm  the  best  fight 
ing  bull-terrier  of  my  weight  in  Montreal. 
That's  why  it  wouldn't  be  right  for  me  to  take 


THE  BAR  SINISTER 

no  notice  of  what  they  shout.  They  don't 
know  that  if  I  once  locked  my  jaws  on  them 
I'd  carry  away  whatever  I  touched.  The  night 
I  fought  Kelley's  White  Rat,  I  wouldn't  loosen 
up  until  the  Master  made  a  noose  in  my  leash 
and  strangled  me,  and  if  the  handlers  hadn't 
thrown  red  pepper  down  my  nose,  I  never  would 
have  let  go  of  that  Ottawa  dog.  I  don't  think 
the  handlers  treated  me  quite  right  that  time, 
but  maybe  they  didn't  know  the  Ottawa  dog 
was  dead.  I  did. 

I  learned  my  fighting  from  my  mother  when  I 
was  very  young.  We  slept  in  a  lumber-yard  on 
the  river-front,  and  by  day  hunted  for  food  along 
the  wharfs.  When  we  got  it,  the  other  tramp- 
dogs  would  try  to  take  it  off  us,  and  then  it  was 
wonderful  to  see  mother  fly  at  them,  and  drive 
them  away.  AH  I  know  of  fighting  I  learned 
from  mother,  watching  her  picking  the  ash- 
heaps  for  me  when  I  was  too  little  to  fight  for 
myself.  No  one  ever  was  so  good  to  me  as 
mother.  When  it  snowed  and  the  ice  was  in 
the  St.  Lawrence  she  used  to  hunt  alone,  and 
bring  me  back  new  bones,  and  she'd  sit  and 
laugh  to  see  me  trying  to  swallow  'em  whole. 
I  was  just  a  puppy  then,  my  teeth  was  falling 
out.  When  I  was  able  to  fight  we  kept  the 
whole  river-range  to  ourselves.  I  had  the 
genuine  long,  "punishing"  jaw,  so  mother  said, 

6 


THE  BAR  SINISTER 

and  there  wasn't  a  man  or  a  dog  that  dared 
worry  us.  Those  were  happy  days,  those  were; 
and  we  lived  well,  share  and  share  alike,  and 
when  we  wanted  a  bit  of  fun,  we  chased  the  fat 
old  wharf-rats.  My  !  how  they  would  squeal ! 

Then  the  trouble  came.  It  wras  no  trouble  to 
me.  I  was  too  young  to  care  then.  But  mother 
took  it  so  to  heart  that  she  grew  ailing,  and 
wouldn't  go  abroad  with  me  by  day.  It  was  the 
same  old  scandal  that  they're  always  bringing 
up  against  me.  I  was  so  young  then  that  I 
didn't  know.  I  couldn't  see  any  difference 
between  mother — and  other  mothers. 

But  one  day  a  pack  of  curs  we  drove  off 
snarled  back  some  new  names  at  her,  and 
mother  dropped  her  head  and  ran,  just  as 
though  they  had  whipped  us.  After  that  she 
wouldn't  go  out  with  me  except  in  the  dark, 
and  one  day  she  went  away  and  never  came 
back,  and  though  I  hunted  for  her  in  every 
court  and  alley  and  back  street  of  Montreal, 
I  never  found  her. 

One  night,  a  month  after  mother  ran  away,  I 
asked  Guardian,  the  old  blind  mastiff,  whose 
Master  is  the  night-watchman  on  our  slip,  what 
it  all  meant.  And  he  told  me. 

"Every  dog  in  Montreal  knows,"  he  says, 
"except  you,  and  every  Master  knows.  So  I 
think  it's  time  you  knew." 

7 


THE  BAR  SINISTER 

Then  he  tells  me  that  my  father,  who  had 
treated  mother  so  bad,  was  a  great  and  noble 
gentleman  from  London.  "Your  father  had 
twenty-two  registered  ancestors,  had  your  fa 
ther,"  old  Guardian  says,  "and  in  him  was  the 
best  bull-terrier  blood  of  England,  the  most 
ancientest,  the  most  royal;  the  winning  'blue- 
ribbon'  blood,  that  breeds  champions.  He  had 
sleepy  pink  eyes,  and  thin  pink  lips,  and  he  was 
as  white  all  over  as  his  own  white  teeth,  and 
under  his  white  skin  you  could  see  his  muscles, 
hard  and  smooth,  like  the  links  of  a  steel  chain. 
When  your  father  stood  still,  and  tipped  his 
nose  in  the  air,  it  was  just  as  though  he  was 
saying,  'Oh,  yes,  you  common  dogs  and  men, 
you  may  well  stare.  It  must  be  a  rare  treat  for 
you  Colonials  to  see  a  real  English  royalty/ 
He  certainly  was  pleased  with  hisself,  was  your 
father.  He  looked  just  as  proud  and  haughty 
as  one  of  them  stone  dogs  in  Victoria  Park — 
them  as  is  cut  out  of  white  marble.  And  you're 
like  him,"  says  the  old  mastiff—  "  by  that,  of 
course,  meaning  you're  white,  same  as  him. 
That's  the  only  likeness.  But,  you  see,  the 
trouble  is,  Kid — well,  you  see,  Kid,  the  trouble 
is — your  mother 

"That  will  do,"  I  said,  for  I  understood  then 
without  his  telling  me,  and  I  got  up  and  walked 
away,  holding  my  head  and  tail  high  in  the  air. 

8 


THE  BAR  SINISTER 

But  I  was,  oh,  so  miserable,  and  I  wanted  to 
see  mother  that  very  minute,  and  tell  her  that 
I  didn't  care. 

Mother  is  what  I  am,  a  street-dog;  there's  no 
royal  blood  in  mother's  veins,  nor  is  she  like 
that  father  of  mine,  nor — and  that's  the  worst- 
she's  not  even  like  me.  For  while  I,  when  I'm 
washed  for  a  fight,  am  as  white  as  clean  snow, 
she — and  this  is  our  trouble,  she — my  mother, 
is  a  black-and-tan. 

When  mother  hid  herself  from  me,  I  was 
twelve  months  old  and  able  to  take  care  of  my 
self,  and,  as  after  mother  left  me,  the  wharfs 
were  never  the  same,  I  moved  up-town  and  met 
the  Master.  Before  he  came,  lots  of  other  men- 
folks  had  tried  to  make  up"  to  me,  and  to  whistle 
me  home.  But  they  either  tried  patting  me  or 
coaxing  me  with  a  piece  of  meat;  so  I  didn't 
take  to  'em.  But  one  day  the  Master  pulled 
me  out  of  a  street-fight  by  the  hind-legs,  and 
kicked  me  good. 

"You  want  to  fight,  do  you?"  says  he.  "I'll 
give  you  all  the  fighting  you  want!"  he  says, 
and  he  kicks  me  again.  So  I  knew  he  was  my 
Master,  and  I  followed  him  home.  Since  that 
day  I've  pulled  off  many  fights  for  him,  and 
they've  brought  dogs  from  all  over  the  province 
to  have  a  go  at  me,  but  up  to  that  night  none 
under  thirty  pounds,  had  ever  downed  me. 

9 


THE  BAR  SINISTER 

But  that  night,  so  soon  as  they  carried  me  into 
the  ring,  I  saw  the  dog  was  over-weight,  and 
that  I  was  no  match  for  him.  It  was  asking 
too  much  of  a  puppy.  The  Master  should  have 
known  I  couldn't  do  it.  Not  that  I  mean  to 
blame  the  Master,  for  when  sober,  which  he 
sometimes  was,  though  not,  as  you  might  say, 
his  habit,  he  was  most  kind  to  me,  and  let  me 
out  to  find  food,  if  I  could  get  it,  and  only  kicked 
me  when  I  didn't  pick  him  up  at  night  and  lead 
him  home. 

But  kicks  will  stiffen  the  muscles,  and  starv 
ing  a  dog  so  as  to  get  him  ugly-tempered  for  a 
fight  may  make  him  nasty,  but  it's  weakening 
to  his  insides,  and  it  causes  the  legs  to  wabble. 

The  ring  was  in  a  hall,  back  of  a  public-house. 
There  was  a  red-hot  whitewashed  stove  in  one 
corner,  and  the  ring  in  the  other.  I  lay  in  the 
Master's  lap,  wrapped  in  my  blanket,  and, 
spite  of  the  stove,  shivering  awful;  but  I  always 
shiver  before  a  fight;  I  can't  help  gettin'  ex 
cited.  While  the  men-folks  were  a-flashing 
their  money  and  taking  their  last  drink  at  the 
bar,  a  little  Irish  groom  in  gaiters  came  up  to 
me  and  give  me  the  back  of  his  hand  to  smell, 
and  scratched  me  behind  the  ears. 

"You  poor  little  pup,"  says  he.  "You 
haven't  no  show,"  he  says.  :<That  brute  in 
the  tap-room,  he'll  eat  your  heart  out." 

10 


THE  BAR  SINISTER 

"That's  what  you  think,"  says  the  Master, 
snarling.  "I'll  lay  you  a  quid  the  Kid  chews 
him  up." 

The  groom,  he  shook  his  head,  but  kept  look 
ing  at  me  so  sorry-Iike,  that  I  begun  to  get  a 
bit  sad  myself.  He  seemed  like  he  couldn't 
bear  to  leave  off  a-patting  of  me,  and  he  says, 
speaking  low  just  like  he  would  to  a  man-folk, 
"Well,  good-luck  to  you,  little  pup,"  which 
I  thought  so  civil  of  him,  that  I  reached  up  and 
licked  his  hand.  I  don't  do  that  to  many  men. 
And  the  Master,  he  knew  I  didn't,  and  took  on 
dreadful. 

"What  'ave  you  got  on  the  back  of  your 
hand?"  says  he,  jumping  up. 

"Soap!"  says  the  groom,  quick  as  a  rat. 
" That's  more  than  you've  got  on  yours.  Do 
you  want  to  smell  of  it?"  and  he  sticks  his  fist 
under  the  Master's  nose.  But  the  pals  pushed 
in  between  'em. 

"He  tried  to  poison  the  Kid!"  shouts  the 
Master. 

"Oh,  one  fight  at  a  time,"  says  the  referee. 
"Get  into  the  ring,  Jerry.  We're  waiting." 
So  we  went  into  the  ring. 

I  never  could  just  remember  what  did  happen 
in  that  ring.  He  give  me  no  time  to  spring. 
He  fell  on  me  like  a  horse.  I  couldn't  keep  my 
feet  against  him,  and  though,  as  I  saw,  he  could 

ii 


THE  BAR  SINISTER 

get  his  hold  when  he  liked,  he  wanted  to  chew 
me  over  a  bit  first.  I  was  wondering  if  they'd 
be  able  to  pry  him  off  me,  when,  in  the  third 
round,  he  took  his  hold;  and  I  began  to  drown, 
just  as  I  did  when  I  fell  into  the  river  off  the  Red 
C  slip.  He  closed  deeper  and  deeper,  on  my 
throat,  and  everything  went  black  and  red  and 
bursting;  and  then,  when  I  were  sure  I  were 
dead,  the  handlers  pulled  him  off,  and  the  Master 
give  me  a  kick  that  brought  me  to.  But  I 
couldn't  move  none,  or  even  wink,  both  eyes 
being  shut  with  lumps. 

"He's  a  cur!"  yells  the  Master,  "a  sneaking, 
cowardly  cur.     He  lost  the  fight  for  me,"  says 

he,  "because  he's  a cowardly 

cur."  And  he  kicks  me  again  in  the  lower  ribs, 
so  that  I  go  sliding  across  the  sawdust.  "  There's 
gratitude  fer  yer,"  yells  the  Master.  "I've  fed 
that  dog,  and  nussed  that  dog,  and  housed  him 
like  a  prince;  and  now  he  puts  his  tail  between 
his  legs,  and  sells  me  out,  he  does.  He's  a 
coward;  I've  done  with  him,  I  am.  I'd  sell 
him  for  a  pipeful  of  tobacco."  He  picked  me 
up  by  the  tail,  and  swung  me  for  the  men-folks 
to  see.  "Does  any  gentleman  here  want  to 
buy  a  dog,"  he  says,  "to  make  into  sausage 
meat?"  he  says.  "That's  all  he's  good  for." 

Then  I  heard  the  little  Irish  groom  say,  "I'll 
give  you  ten  bob  for  the  dog." 

12 


THE  BAR  SINISTER 

And  another  voice  says,  "Ah,  don't  you  do 
it;  the  dog's  same  as  dead — mebby  he  is  dead." 

"Ten  shillings!"  says  the  Master,  and  his 
voice  sobers  a  bit;  "make  it  two  pounds,  and 
he's  yours." 

But  the  pals  rushed  in  again. 

"Don't  you  be  a  fool,  Jerry,"  they  say. 
" You'll  be  sorry  for  this  when  you're  sober. 
The  Kid's  worth  a  fiver." 

One  of  my  eyes  was  not  so  swelled  up  as  the 
other,  and  as  I  hung  by  my  tail,  I  opened  it, 
and  saw  one  of  the  pals  take  the  groom  by  the 
shoulder. 

''You  ought  to  give  'im  five  pounds  for  that 
dog,  mate,"  he  says;  "that's  no  ordinary  dog. 
That  dog's  got  good  blood  in  him,  that  dog  has. 
Why,  his  father — that  very  dog's  father— 

I  thought  he  never  would  go  on.  He  waited 
like  he  wanted  to  be  sure  the  groom  was  listening. 

"That  very  dog's  father,"  says  the  pal,  "is 
Regent  Royal,  son  of  Champion  Regent  Mon 
arch,  champion  bull-terrier  of  England  for 
four  years." 

I  was  sore,  and  torn,  and  chewed  most  awful, 
but  what  the  pal  said  sounded  so  fine  that  I 
wanted  to  wag  my  tail,  only  couldn't,  owing 
to  my  hanging  from  it. 

But  the  Master  calls  out,  "Yes,  his  father  was 
Regent  Royal;  who's  saying  he  wasn't?  but  the 

13 


THE  BAR  SINISTER 

pup's  a  cowardly  cur,  that's  what  his  pup  is, 
and  why — I'll  tell  you  why — because  his  mother 
was  a  black-and-tan  street-dog,  that's  why!" 

I  don't  see  how  I  get  the  strength,  but  some 
way  I  threw  myself  out  of  the  Master's  grip 
and  fell  at  his  feet,  and  turned  over  and  fastened 
all  my  teeth  in  his  ankle,  just  across  the  bone. 

When  I  woke,  after  the  pals  had  kicked  me  off 
him,  I  was  in  the  smoking-car  of  a  railroad- 
train,  lying  in  the  lap  of  the  little  groom,  and  he 
was  rubbing  my  open  wounds  with  a  greasy, 
yellow  stuff,  exquisite  to  the  smell,  and  most 
agreeable  to  lick  off. 


PART  II 

"WELL — what's  your  name — Nolan?  Well, 
Nolan,  these  references  are  satisfactory,"  said 
the  young  gentleman  my  new  Master  called 
"Mr.  Wyndham,  sir."  "PII  take  you  on  as 
second  man.  You  can  begin  to-day." 

My  new  Master  shuffled  his  feet,  and  put  his 
finger  to  his  forehead.  "Thank  you,  sir,"  says 
he.  Then  he  choked  like  he  had  swallowed  a 
fish-bone.  "I  have  a  little  dawg,  sir,"  says  he. 

"You  can't  keep  him,"  says  "Mr.  Wyndham, 
sir,"  very  short. 

'  'Es  only  a  puppy,  sir,"  says  my  new  Master; 
*  'e  wouldn't  go  outside  the  stables,  sir." 

"It's  not  that,"  says  "Mr.  Wyndham,  sir"; 
"  I  have  a  large  kennel  of  very  fine  dogs;  they're 
the  best  of  their  breed  in  America.  I  don't 
allow  strange  dogs  on  the  premises." 

The  Master  shakes  his  head,  and  motions  me 
with  his  cap,  and  I  crept  out  from  behind  the 
door.  " I'm  sorry,  sir,"  says  the  Master.  "Then 
I  can't  take  the  place.  I  can't  get  along  without 
the  dog,  sir." 

"Mr.  Wyndham,  sir,"  looked  at  me  that  fierce 
that  I  guessed  he  was  going  to  whip  me,  so  I 

15 


THE  BAR  SINISTER 

turned  over  on  my  back  and  begged  with  my 
legs  and  tail. 

"Why,  you  beat  him !"  says  "Mr.  Wyndham, 
sir,"  very  stern. 

"No  fear !"  the  Master  says,  getting  very  red. 
"The  party  I  bought  him  off  taught  him  that. 
He  never  learnt  that  from  me !"  He  picked  me 
up  in  his  arms,  and  to  show  "Mr.  Wyndham, 
sir,"  how  well  I  loved  the  Master,  I  bit  his  chin 
and  hands. 

"Mr.  Wyndham,  sir,"  turned  over  the  letters 
the  Master  had  given  him.  "Well,  these  ref 
erences  certainly  are  very  strong,"  he  says.  "I 
guess  I'll  let  the  dog  stay  this  time.  Only  see 
you  keep  him  away  from  the  kennels — or  you'll 
both  go." 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  says  the  Master,  grinning 
like  a  cat  when  she's  safe  behind  the  area- 
railing. 

"He's  not  a  bad  bull-terrier,"  says  "Mr. 
Wyndham,  sir,"  feeling  my  head.  "Not  that  I 
know  much  about  the  smooth-coated  breeds. 
My  dogs  are  St.  Bernards."  He  stopped  pat 
ting  me  and  held  up  my  nose.  "What's  the 
matter  with  his  ears?"  he  says.  "They're 
chewed  to  pieces.  Is  this  a  fighting  dog?"  he 
asks,  quick  and  rough-like. 

I  could  have  laughed.  If  he  hadn't  been 
holding  my  nose,  I  certainly  would  have  had  a 

16 


THE  BAR  SINISTER 

good  grin  at  him.  Me,  the  best  under  thirty 
pounds  in  the  Province  of  Quebec,  and  him  ask 
ing  if  I  was  a  fighting  dog !  I  ran  to  the  Master 
and  hung  down  my  head  modest-Iike,  waiting 
for  him  to  tell  of  my  list  of  battles,  but  the 
Master  he  coughs  in  his  cap  most  painful. 
"Fightin'  dog,  sir,"  he  cries.  "Lor*  bless  you, 
sir,  the  Kid  don't  know  the  word.  'Es  just  a 
puppy,  sir,  same  as  you  see;  a  pet  dog,  so  to 
speak.  'Es  a  regular  old  lady's  lap-dog,  the 
Kid  is." 

"Well,  you  keep  him  away  from  my  St.  Ber 
nards,"  says  "Mr.  Wyndham,  sir,"  "or  they 
might  make  a  mouthful  of  him." 

"Yes,  sir,  that  they  might,"  says  the  Master. 
But  when  we  gets  outside  he  slaps  his  knee  and 
laughs  inside  hisself,  and  winks  at  me  most 
sociable. 

The  Master's  new  home  was  in  the  country, 
in  a  province  they  called  Long  Island.  There 
was  a  high  stone  wall  about  his  home  with  big 
iron  gates  to  it,  same  as  Godfrey's  brewery; 
and  there  was  a  house  with  five  red  roofs,  and 
the  stables,  where  I  lived,  was  cleaner  than 
the  aerated  bakery-shop,  and  then  there  was 
the  kennels,  but  they  was  like  nothing  else  in 
this  world  that  ever  I  see.  For  the  first  days  I 
couldn't  sleep  of  nights  for  fear  some  one  would 
catch  me  lying  in  such  a  cleaned-up  place,  and 

17 


THE  BAR  SINISTER 

would  chase  me  out  of  it,  and  when  I  did  fall 
to  sleep  I'd  dream  I  was  back  in  the  old  Master's 
attic,  shivering  under  the  rusty  stove,  which 
never  had  no  coals  in  it,  with  the  Master  flat  on 
his  back  on  the  cold  floor  with  his  clothes  on. 
And  I'd  wake  up,  scared  and  whimpering,  and 
find  myself  on  the  new  Master's  cot  with  his 
hand  on  the  quilt  beside  me;  and  I'd  see  the 
glow  of  the  big  stove,  and  hear  the  high-quality 
horses  below-stairs  stamping  in  their  straw- 
lined  boxes,  and  I'd  snoop  the  sweet  smell  of 
hay  and  harness-soap,  and  go  to  sleep  again. 

The  stables  was  my  jail,  so  the  Master  said, 
but  I  don't  ask  no  better  home  than  that  jail. 

"Now,  Kid,"  says  he,  sitting  on  the  top  of  a 
bucket  upside  down,  "you've  got  to  understand 
this.  When  I  whistle  it  means  you're  not  to  go 
out  of  this  'ere  yard.  These  stables  is  your 
jail.  And  if  you  leave  'em  I'll  have  to  leave 
'em,  too,  and  over  the  seas,  in  the  County  Mayo, 
an  old  mother  will  'ave  to  leave  her  bit  of  a 
cottage.  For  two  pounds  I  must  be  sending 
her  every  month,  or  she'll  have  naught  to  eat, 
nor  no  thatch  over  'er  head;  so,  I  can't  lose  my 
place,  Kid,  an'  see  you  don't  lose  it  for  me. 
You  must  keep  away  from  the  kennels,"  says 
he;  "they're  not  for  the  likes  of  you.  The 
kennels  are  for  the  quality.  I  wouldn't  take  a 
litter  of  them  woolly  dogs  for  one  wag  of  your 

18 


THE   BAR  SINISTER 

tail,  Kid,  but  for  all  that  they  are  your  betters, 
same  as  the  gentry  up  in  the  big  house  are  my 
betters.  I  know  my  place  and  keep  away  from 
che  gentry,  and  you  keep  away  from  the  cham 
pions." 

So  I  never  goes  out  of  the  stables.  All  day 
I  just  lay  in  the  sun  on  the  stone  flags,  licking 
my  jaws,  and  watching  the  grooms  wash  down 
the  carriages,  and  the  only  care  I  had  was  to 
see  they  didn't  get  gay  and  turn  the  hose  on 
me.  There  wasn't  even  a  single  rat  to  plague 
me.  Such  stables  I  never  did  see. 

"Nolan,"  says  the  head-groom,  "some  day 
that  dog  of  yours  will  give  you  the  slip.  You 
can't  keep  a  street-dog  tied  up  all  his  life.  It's 
against  his  natur'."  The  head-groom  is  a  nice 
old  gentleman,  but  he  doesn't  know  everything. 
Just  as  though  I'd  been  a  street-dog  because  I 
liked  it.  As  if  I'd  rather  poke  for  my  vittels 
in  ash-heaps  than  have  'em  handed  me  in  a 
wash-basin  and  would  sooner  bite  and  fight 
than  be  polite  and  sociable.  If  I'd  had  mother 
there  I  couldn't  have  asked  for  nothing  more. 
But  I'd  think  of  her  snooping  in  the  gutters,  or 
freezing  of  nights  under  the  bridges,  or5  what's 
worse  of  all,  running  through  the  hot  streets 
with  her  tongue  down,  so  wild  and  crazy  for  a 
drink,  that  the  people  would  shout  "mad  dog" 
at  her,  and  stone  her.  Water's  so  good,  that  I 

19 


THE  BAR  SINISTER 

don't  blame  the  men-folks  for  locking  it  up 
inside  their  houses,  but  when  the  hot  days 
come,  I  think  they  might  remember  that  those 
are  the  dog-days  and  leave  a  little  water  outside 
in  a  trough,  like  they  do  for  the  horses.  Then 
we  wouldn't  go  mad,  and  the  policemen  wouldn't 
shoot  us.  I  had  so  much  of  everything  I  wanted 
that  it  made  me  think  a  lot  of  the  days  when 
I  hadn't  nothing,  and  if  I  could  have  given  what 
I  had  to  mother,  as  she  used  to  share  with  me, 
I'd  have  been  the  happiest  dog  in  the  land. 
Not  that  I  wasn't  happy  then,  and  most  grate 
ful  to  the  Master,  too,  and  if  I'd  only  minded 
him,  the  trouble  wouldn't  have  come  again. 

But  one  day  the  coachman  says  that  the  little 
lady  they  called  Miss  Dorothy  had  come  back 
from  school,  and  that  same  morning  she  runs 
over  to  the  stables  to  pat  her  ponies,  and  she 
sees  me. 

"Oh,  what  a  nice  little,  white  little  dog," 
said  she;  "whose  little  dog  are  you?"  says 
she. 

"  That's   my   dog,    miss,"   says  the   Master. 
'  Ts  name  is  Kid,"  and  I  ran  up  to  her  most 
polite,  and  licks  her  fingers,  for  I  never  see  so 
pretty  and  kind  a  lady. 

"You  must  come  with  me  and  call  on  my  new 
puppies,"  says  she,  picking  me  up  in  her  arms 
and  starting  off  with  me. 

20 


THE  BAR  SINISTER 

"Oh,  but  please,  miss,"  cries  Nolan,  "Mr. 
Wyndham  give  orders  that  the  Kid's  not  to  go 
to  the  kennels/' 

"That'll  be  all  right,"  says  the  little  lady; 
"they're  my  kennels  too.  And  the  puppies  will 
like  to  play  with  him." 

You  wouldn't  believe  me  if  I  was  to  tell  you 
of  the  style  of  them  quality-dogs.  If  I  hadn't 
seen  it  myself  I  wouldn't  have  believed  it 
neither.  The  Viceroy  of  Canada  don't  live  no 
better.  There  was  forty  of  them,  but  each  one 
had  his  own  house  and  a  yard — most  exclusive 
— and  a  cot  and  a  drinking-basin  all  to  hisself. 
They  had  servants  standing  'round  waiting  to 
feed  'em  when  they  was  hungry,  and  valets  to 
wash  'em;  and  they  had  their  hair  combed 
and  brushed  like  the  grooms  must  when  they 
go  out  on  the  box.  Even  the  puppies  had  over 
coats  with  their  names  on  'em  in  blue  letters, 
and  the  name  of  each  of  those  they  called  cham 
pions  was  painted  up  fine  over  his  front  door 
just  like  it  was  a  public-house  or  a  veterinary's. 
They  were  the  biggest  St.  Bernards  I  ever  did 
see.  I  could  have  walked  under  them  if  they'd 
have  let  me.  But  they  were  very  proud  and 
haughty  dogs,  and  looked  only  once  at  me,  and 
then  sniffed  in  the  air.  The  little  lady's  own 
dog  was  an  old  gentleman  bull-dog.  He'd 
come  along  with  us,  and  when  he  notices  hovf 

21 


THE  BAR  SINISTER 

taken  aback  I  was  with  all  I  see,  'e  turned  quite 
kind  and  affable  and  showed  me  about. 

"Jimmy  Jocks,"  Miss  Dorothy  called  him, 
but,  owing  to  his  weight,  he  walked  most 
dignified  and  slow,  waddling  like  a  duck  as  you 
might  say,  and  looked  much  too  proud  and  hand 
some  for  such  a  silly  name. 

"  That's  the  runway,  and  that's  the  Trophy 
House,"  says  he  to  me,  "and  that  over  there  is 
the  hospital,  where  you  have  to  go  if  you  get 
distemper,  and  the  vet.  gives  you  beastly 
medicine." 

"And  which  of  these  is  your  'ouse,  sir?"  asks 
I,  wishing  to  be  respectful.  But  he  looked  that 
hurt  and  haughty.  "I  don't  live  in  the  ken 
nels,"  says  he,  most  contemptuous.  "I  am  a 
house-dog.  I  sleep  in  Miss  Dorothy's  room. 
And  at  lunch  I'm  let  in  with  the  family,  if  the 
visitors  don't  mind.  They  most  always  do, 
but  they're  too  polite  to  say  so.  Besides,"  says 
he,  smiling  most  condescending,  "visitors  are 
always  afraid  of  me.  It's  because  I'm  so  ugly," 
says  he.  "I  suppose,"  says  he,  screwing  up  his 
wrinkles  and  speaking  very  slow  and  impres 
sive,  "I  suppose  I'm  the  ugliest  bull-dog  in 
America,"  and  as  he  seemed  to  be  so  pleased  to 
think  hisself  so,  I  said,  "Yes,  sir,  you  certainly 
are  the  ugliest  ever  I  see,"  at  which  he  nodded 
his  head  most  approving. 

22 


I  suppose  I'm  the  ugliest  bull-dog  in  America.3 


THE  BAR  SINISTER 

"But  I  couldn't  hurt  'em,  as  you  say,"  he 
goes  on,  though  I  hadn't  said  nothing  like  that, 
being  too  polite.  "I'm  too  old,"  he  says;  "I 
haven't  any  teeth.  The  last  time  one  of  those 
grizzly  bears,"  said  he,  glaring  at  the  big  St. 
Bernards,  "took  a  hold  of  me,  he  nearly  was  my 
death,"  says  he.  I  thought  his  eyes  would  pop 
out  of  his  head,  he  seemed  so  wrought  up  about 
it.  "He  rolled  me  around  in  the  dirt,  he  did," 
says  Jimmy  Jocks,  "an'  I  couldn't  get  up.  It 
was  low,"  says  Jimmy  Jocks,  making  a  face  like 
he  had  a  bad  taste  in  his  mouth.  "Low,  that's 
what  I  call  it,  bad  form,  you  understand,  young 
man,  not  done  in  our  circles — and — and  low." 
He  growled,  way  down  in  his  stomach,  and 
puffed  hisself  out,  panting  and  blowing  like  he 
had  been  on  a  run. 

"I'm  not  a  street-fighter,"  he  says,  scowling 
at  a  St.  Bernard  marked  "Champion."  "And 
when  my  rheumatism  is  not  troubling  me,"  he 
says,  "  I  endeavor  to  be  civil  to  all  dogs,  so  long 
as  they  are  gentlemen." 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  I,  for  even  to  me  he  had  been 
most  affable. 

At  this  we  had  come  to  a  little  house  off  by 
itself  and  Jimmy  Jocks  invites  me  in.  "This 
is  their  trophy-room,"  he  says,  "where  they 
keep  their  prizes.  Mine,"  he  says,  rather 
grand-like,  "are  on  the  sideboard."  Not  know- 

23 


THE  BAPx  SINISTER 

ing  what  a  sideboard  might  be,  I  said,  "Indeed, 
sir,  that  must  be  very  gratifying."  But  he  only 
wrinkled  up  his  chops  as  much  as  to  say,  "It  is 
my  right." 

The  trophy-room  was  as  wonderful  as  any 
public-house  I  ever  see.  On  the  walls  was 
pictures  of  nothing  but  beautiful  St.  Bernard 
dogs,  and  rows  and  rows  of  blue  and  red  and 
yellow  ribbons;  and  when  I  asked  Jimmy  Jocks 
why  they  was  so  many  more  of  blue  than  of 
the  others,  he  laughs  and  says,  "Because  these 
kennels  always  win."  And  there  was  many 
shining  cups  on  the  shelves  which  Jimmy  Jocks 
told  me  were  prizes  won  by  the  champions 

"Now,  sir,  might  I  ask  you,  sir,"  says  I, 
"wot  is  a  champion?" 

At  that  he  panted  and  breathed  so  hard  I 
thought  he  would  bust  hisself.  "My  dear 
young  friend!"  says  he.  "Wherever  have  you 
been  educated?  A  champion  is  a — a  cham 
pion,"  he  says.  "He  must  win  nine  blue  ribbons 
in  the  'open'  class.  You  follow  me — that  is — 
against  all  comers.  Then  he  has  the  title  before 
his  name,  and  they  put  his  photograph  in  the 
sporting  papers.  You  know,  of  course,  that  / 
am  a  champion,"  says  he.  "I  am  Champion 
Woodstock  Wizard  III.,  and  the  two  other 
Woodstock  Wizards,  my  father  and  uncle,  were 
both  champions." 

24 


THE  BAR  SINISTER 

"But  I  thought  your  name  was  Jimmy  Jocks," 
I  said. 

He  laughs  right  out  at  that. 

"That's  my  kennel  name,  not  my  registered 
name,"  he  says.  "Why,  you  certainly  know 
that  every  dog  has  two  names.  Now,  what's 
your  registered  name  and  number,  for  instance?" 
says  he. 

"I've  only  got  one  name,"  I  says.  "Just 
Kid." 

Woodstock  Wizard  puffs  at  that  and  wrinkles 
up  his  forehead  and  pops  out  his  eyes. 

"Who  are  your  people?"  says  he.  "Where 
is  your  home?" 

"At  the  stable,  sir,"  I  said.  "  My  Master 
is  the  second  groom." 

At  that  Woodstock  Wizard  III  looks  at  me 
for  quite  a  bit  without  winking,  and  stares  all 
around  the  room  over  my  head. 

"Oh,  well,"  says  he  at  last,  "you're  a  very 
civil  young  dog,"  says  he,  "and  I  blame  no  one 
for  what  he  can't  help,"  which  I  thought  most 
fair  and  liberal.  "And  I  have  known  many 
bull-terriers  that  were  champions,"  says  he, 
"though  as  a  rule  they  mostly  run  with  fire- 
engines,  and  to  fighting.  For  me,  I  wouldn't 
care  to  run  through  the  streets  after  a  hose-cart, 
nor  to  fight,"  says  he;  "but  each  to  his  taste." 

I  could  not  help  thinking  that  if  Woodstock 
25 


THE  BAR  SINISTER 

Wizard  III  tried  to  follow  a  fire-engine  he  would 
die  of  apoplexy,  and  that,  seeing  he'd  lost  his 
teeth,  it  was  lucky  he  had  no  taste  for  fighting, 
but,  after  his  being  so  condescending,  I  didn't 
say  nothing. 

"Anyway,"  says  he,  "every  smooth-coated 
dog  is  better  than  any  hairy  old  camel  like  those 
St.  Bernards,  and  if  ever  you're  hungry  down  at 
the  stables,  young  man,  come  up  to  the  house 
and  I'll  give  you  a  bone.  I  can't  eat  them 
myself,  but  I  bury  them  around  the  garden  from 
force  of  habit,  and  in  case  a  friend  should  drop 
in.  Ah,  I  see  my  Mistress  coming,"  he  says, 
"and  I  bid  you  good-day.  I  regret,"  he  says, 
"that  our  different  social  position  prevents  our 
meeting  frequent,  for  you're  a  worthy  young 
dog  with  a  proper  respect  for  your  betters,  and 
in  this  country  there's  precious  few  of  them 
have  that."  Then  he  waddles  off,  leaving  me 
alone  and  very  sad,  for  he  was  the  first  dog 
in  many  days  that  had  spoken  to  me.  But 
since  he  showed,  seeing  that  I  was  a  stable- 
dog,  he  didn't  want  my  company,  I  waited  for 
him  to  get  well  away.  It  was  not  a  cheerful 
place  to  wait,  the  Trophy  House.  The  pictures 
of  the  champions  seemed  to  scowl  at  me,  and 
ask  what  right  had  such  as  I  even  to  admire 
them,  and  the  blue  and  gold  ribbons  and  the 
silver  cups  made  me  very  miserable.  I  had 

26 


THE  BAR  SINISTER 

never  won  no  blue  ribbons  or  silver  cups;  only 
stakes  for  the  old  Master  to  spend  in  the  publics, 
and  I  hadn't  won  them  for  being  a  beautiful, 
high-quality  dog,  but  just  for  fighting — which, 
of  course,  as  Woodstock  Wizard  III  says,  is 
low.  So  I  started  for  the  stables,  with  my  head 
down  and  my  tail  between  my  legs,  feeling 
sorry  I  had  ever  left  the  Master.  But  I  had 
more  reason  to  be  sorry  before  I  got  back  to  him. 
The  Trophy  House  was  quite  a  bit  from  the 
kennels,  and  as  I  left  it  I  see  Miss  Dorothy  and 
Woodstock  Wizard  III  walking  back  toward 
them,  and  that  a  fine,  big  St.  Bernard,  his  name 
was  Champion  Red  Elfberg,  had  broke  his  chain, 
and  was  running  their  way.  When  he  reaches 
old  Jimmy  Jocks  he  lets  out  a  roar  like  a 
grain-steamer  in  a  fog,  and  he  makes  three  leaps 
for  him.  Old  Jimmy  Jocks  was  about  a  fourth 
his  size;  but  he  plants  his  feet  and  curves  his 
back,  and  his  hair  goes  up  around  his  neck  like 
a  collar.  But  he  never  had  no  show  at  no  time, 
for  the  grizzly  bear,  as  Jimmy  Jocks  had  called 
him,  lights  on  old  Jimmy's  back  and  tries  to 
break  it,  and  old  Jimmy  Jocks  snaps  his  gums 
and  claws  the  grass,  panting  and  groaning 
awful.  But  he  can't  do  nothing,  and  the 
grizzly  bear  just  rolls  him  under  him,  biting  and 
tearing  cruel.  The  odds  was  all  that  Woodstock 
Wizard  III  was  going  to  be  killed.  I  had 

27 


THE  BAR  SINISTER 

fought  enough  to  see  that,  but  not  knowing 
the  rules  of  the  game  among  champions,  I 
didn't  like  to  interfere  between  two  gentlemen 
who  might  be  settling  a  private  affair,  and,  as 
it  were,  take  it  as  presuming  of  me.  So  I  stood 
by,  though  I  was  shaking  terrible,  and  holding 
myself  in  like  I  was  on  a  leash.  But  at  that 
Woodstock  Wizard  III,  who  was  underneath, 
sees  me  through  the  dust,  and  calls  very  faint, 
"Help,  you  !"  he  says.  "Take  him  in  the  hind- 
leg,"  he  says.  "He's  murdering  me,"  he  says. 
And  then  the  little  Miss  Dorothy,  who  was 
crying,  and  calling  to  the  kennel-men,  catches 
at  the  Red  Elfberg's  hind-legs  to  pull  him  off, 
and  the  brute,  keeping  his  front  pats  well  in 
Jimmy's  stomach,  turns  his  big  head  and  snaps 
at  her.  So  that  was  all  I  asked  for,  thank  you. 
I  went  up  under  him.  It  was  really  nothing. 
He  stood  so  high  that  I  had  only  to  take  off 
about  three  feet  from  him  and  come  in  from  the 
side,  and  my  long,  "punishing  jaw"  as  mother 
was  always  talking  about,  locked  on  his  woolly 
throat,  and  my  back  teeth  met.  I  couldn't 
shake  him,  but  I  shook  myself,  and  every  time 
I  shook  myself  there  was  thirty  pounds  of 
weight  tore  at  his  windpipes.  I  couldn't  see 
nothing  for  his  long  hair,  but  I  heard  Jimmy 
Jocks  puffing  and  blowing  on  one  side,  and 
munching  the  brute's  leg  with  his  old  gums. 

28 


THE  BAR  SINISTER 

Jimmy  was  an  old  sport  that  day,  was  Jimmy, 
or,  Woodstock  Wizard  III.,  as  I  should  say. 
When  the  Red  Elfberg  was  out  and  down  I  had 
to  run,  or  those  kennel-men  would  have  had 
my  life.  They  chased  me  right  into  the  stables; 
and  from  under  the  hay  I  watched  the  head- 
groom  take  down  a  carriage-whip  and  order 
them  to  the  right  about.  Luckily  Master  and 
the  young  grooms  were  out,  or  that  day  there' d 
have  been  fighting  for  everybody. 

Well,  it  nearly  did  for  me  and  the  Master. 
"Mr.  Wyndham,  sir,"  comes  raging  to  the 
stables  and  said  I'd  half-killed  his  best  prize 
winner,  and  had  oughter  be  shot,  and  he  gives 
the  Master  Ms  notice.  But  Miss  Dorothy  she 
follows  him,  and  says  it  was  his  Red  Elfberg 
what  began  the  fight,  and  that  I'd  saved  Jimmy's 
life,  and  that  old  Jimmy  Jocks  was  worth  more 
to  her  than  all  the  St.  Bernards  in  the  Swiss 
mountains — wherever  they  be.  And  that  I 
was  her  champion,  anyway.  Then  she  cried 
over  me  most  beautiful,  and  over  Jimmy  Jocks, 
too,  who  was  that  tied  up  in  bandages  he 
couldn't  even  waddle.  So  when  he  heard  that 
side  of  it,  "Mr.  Wyndham,  sir,"  told  us  that  if 
Nolan  put  me  on  a  chain,  we  could  stay.  So  it 
came  out  all  right  for  everybody  but  me.  I 
was  glad  the  Master  kept  his  place,  but  I'd 
never  worn  a  chain  before,  and  it  disheartened 

29 


THE  BAR  SINISTER 

me — but  that  was  the  least  of  it.  For  the 
quality-dogs  couldn't  forgive  my  whipping  their 
champion,  and  they  came  to  the  fence  between 
the  kennels  and  the  stables,  and  laughed  through 
the  bars,  barking  most  cruel  words  at  me.  I 
couldn't  understand  how  they  found  it  out,  but 
they  knew.  After  the  fight  Jimmy  Jocks  was 
most  condescending  to  me,  and  he  said  the 
grooms  had  boasted  to  the  kennel-men  that  I 
was  a  son  of  Regent  Royal,  and  that  when  the 
kennel-men  asked  who  was  my  mother  they  had 
had  to  tell  them  that  too.  Perhaps  that  was 
the  way  of  it,  but,  however,  the  scandal  was 
out,  and  every  one  of  the  quality-dogs  knew 
that  I  was  a  street-dog  and  the  son  of  a  black- 
and-tan. 

:t  These  misalliances  will  occur,"  said  Jimmy 
Jocks,  in  his  old-fashioned  way,  "but  no  well- 
bred  dog,"  says  he,  looking  most  scornful  at 
the  St.  Bernards,  who  were  howling  behind  the 
palings,  "would  refer  to  your  misfortune  before 
you,  certainly  not  cast  it  in  your  face.  I,  my 
self,  remember  your  father's  father,  when  he 
made  his  debut  at  the  Crystal  Palace.  He  took 
four  blue  ribbons  and  three  specials." 

But  no  sooner  than  Jimmy  would  leave  me, 
the  St.  Bernards  would  take  to  howling  again, 
insulting  mother  and  insulting  me.  And  when 
I  tore  at  my  chain,  they,  seeing  they  were  safe, 

30 


THE  BAR  SINISTER 

would  howl  the  more.  It  was  never  the  same 
after  that;  the  laughs  and  the  jeers  cut  into  my 
heart,  and  the  chain  bore  heavy  on  my  spirit. 
I  was  so  sad  that  sometimes  I  wished  I  was  back 
in  the  gutter  again,  where  no  one  was  better 
than  me,  and  some  nights  I  wished  I  was  dead. 
If  it  hadn't  been  for  the  Master  being  so  kind, 
and  that  it  would  have  looked  like  I  was  blaming 
mother,  I  would  have  twisted  my  leash  and 
hanged  myself. 

About  a  month  after  my  fight,  the  word  was 
passed  through  the  kennels  that  the  New  York 
Show  was  coming,  and  such  goings  on  as  fol 
lowed  I  never  did  see.  If  each  of  them  had  been 
matched  to  fight  for  a  thousand  pounds  and  the 
gate,  they  couldn't  have  trained  more  conscien 
tious.  But,  perhaps,  that's  just  my  envy.  The 
kennel-men  rubbed  'em  and  scrubbed  'em  and 
trims  their  hair  and  curls  and  combs  it,  and  some 
dogs  they  fatted,  and  some  they  starved.  No 
one  talked  of  nothing  but  the  Show,  and  the 
chances  "our  kennels"  had  against  the  other 
kennels,  and  if  this  one  of  our  champions  would 
win  over  that  one,  and  whether  them  as  hoped 
to  be  champions  had  better  show  in  the  "open" 
or  the  "limit"  class,  and  whether  this  dog  would 
beat  his  own  dad,  or  whether  his  little  puppy 
sister  couldn't  beat  the  two  of  them.  Even  the 
grooms  had  their  money  up,  and  day. or  night 


THE  BAR  SINISTER 

you  heard  nothing  but  praises  of  "our"  dogs, 
until  I,  being  so  far  out  of  it,  couldn't  have 
felt  meaner  if  I  had  been  running  the  streets 
with  a  can  to  my  tail.  I  knew  shows  were  not 
for  such  as  me,  and  so  I  lay  all  day  stretched  at 
the  end  of  my  chain,  pretending  I  was  asleep, 
and  only  too  glad  that  they  had  something  so 
important  to  think  of,  that  they  could  leave  me 
alone. 

But  one  day  before  the  Show  opened,  Miss 
Dorothy  came  to  the  stables  with  "Mr.  Wynd- 
ham,  sir,"  and  seeing  me  chained  up  and  so 
miserable,  she  takes  me  in  her  arms. 

"You  poor  little  tyke,"  says  she.  "It's  cruel 
to  tie  him  up  so;  he's  eating  his  heart  out, 
Nolan,"  she  says.  "  I  don't  know  nothing  about 
bull- terriers,"  says  she,  "but  I  think  Kid's  got 
good  points,"  says  she,  "and  you  ought  to  show 
him.  Jimmy  Jocks  has  three  legs  on  the  Rensse- 
laer  Cup  now,  and  I'm  going  to  show  him  this 
time  so  that  he  can  get  the  fourth,  and  if  you 
wish,  I'll  enter  your  dog  too.  How  would  you 
like  that,  Kid?"  says  she.  "How  would  you 
like  to  see  the  most  beautiful  dogs  in  the  world  ? 
Maybe,  you'd  meet  a  pal  or  two,"  says  she. 
"It  would  cheer  you  up,  wouldn't  it,  Kid?"  says 
she.  But  I  was  so  upset,  I  could  only  wag  my 
tail  most  violent.  "He  says  it  would!"  says 
she,  though,  being  that  excited,  I  hadn't  said 
nothing. 


THE  BAR  SINISTER 

So,  "Mr.  Wyndham,  sir,"  laughs  and  takes 
out  a  piece  of  blue  paper,  and  sits  down  at  the 
head-groom's  table. 

"What's  the  name  of  the  father  of  your  dog, 
Nolan?"  says  he.  And  Nolan  says,  "The  man 
I  got  him  off  told  rne  he  was  a  son  of  Champion 
Regent  Royal,  sir.  But  it  don't  seem  likely, 
does  it?"  says  Nolan. 

"It  does  not!"  says  "Mr.  Wyndham,  sir," 
short-like. 

"Aren't  you  sure,  Nolan? "says  Miss  Dorothy. 

"No,  miss,"  says  the  Master. 

"Sire  unknown,"  says  "Mr.  Wyndham,  sir," 
and  writes  it  down. 

"Date  of  birth?"  asks  "Mr.  Wyndham,  sir." 

"I — I — unknown,  sir,"  says  Nolan.  And 
"Mr.  Wyndham,  sir,"  writes  it  down. 

"Breeder?"  says  "Mr.  Wyndham,  sir." 

"Unknown,"  says  Nolan,  getting  very  red 
around  the  jaws,  and  I  drops  my  head  and  tail. 
And  "Mr.  Wyndham,  sir,"  writes  that  down. 

"Mother's  name?"  says  "Mr.  Wyndham,  sir." 

"She  was  a — unknown,"  says  the  Master. 
And  I  licks  his  hand. 

"Dam  unknown,"  says  "Mr.  Wyndham,  sir," 
and  writes  it  down.  Then  he  takes  the  paper 
and  reads  out  loud:  "Sire  unknown,  dam  un 
known,  breeder  unknown,  date  of  birth  unknown. 
You'd  better  call  him  the  'Great  Unknown,'  " 
says  he.  "Who's  paying  his  entrance- fee?" 

33 


THE  BAR  SINISTER 

"I  am,"  says  Miss  Dorothy. 

Two  weeks  after  we  all  got  on  a  train  for  New 
York;  Jimmy  Jocks  and  me  following  Nolan 
in  the  smoking-car,  and  twenty-two  of  the  St. 
Bernards,  in  boxes  and  crates,  and  on  chains  and 
leashes.  Such  a  barking  and  howling  I  never 
did  hear,  and  when  they  sees  me  going,  too,  they 
laughs  fit  to  kill. 

"Wot  is  this;  a  circus?"  says  the  railroad 
man. 

But  I  had  no  heart  in  it.  I  hated  to  go.  I 
knew  I  was  no  "show"  dog,  even  though  Miss 
Dorothy  and  the  Master  did  their  best  to  keep 
me  from  shaming  them.  For  before  we  set  out 
Miss  Dorothy  brings  a  man  from  town  who 
scrubbed  and  rubbed  me,  and  sand-papered  my 
tail,  which  hurt  most  awful,  and  shaved  my  ears 
with  the  Master's  razor,  so  that  you  could  most 
see  clear  through  'em,  and  sprinkles  me  over 
with  pipe-clay,  till  I  shines  like  a  Tommy's 
cross-belts. 

"Upon  my  word!"  says  Jimmy  Jocks  when 
he  first  sees  me.  "What  a  swell  you  are! 
You're  the  image  of  your  grand-dad  when  he 
made  his  debut  at  the  Crystal  Palace.  He  took 
four  firsts  and  three  specials."  But  I  knew  he 
was  only  trying  to  throw  heart  into  me.  They 
might  scrub,  and  they  might  rub,  and  they 
might  pipe-clay,  but  they  couldn't  pipe-clay 

34 


THE  BAR  SINISTER 

the  insides  of  me,  and  they  was  black-and- 
tan. 

Then  we  came  to  a  Garden,  which  it  was  not, 
but  the  biggest  hall  in  the  world.  Inside  there 
was  lines  of  benches,  a  few  miles  long,  and  on 
them  sat  every  dog  in  the  world.  If  all  the  dog- 
snatchers  in  Montreal  had  worked  night  and  day 
for-  a  year,  they  couldn't  have  caught  so  many 
dogs.  And  they  was  all  shouting  and  barking 
and  howling  so  vicious,  that  my  heart  stopped 
beating.  For  at  first  I  thought  they  was  all  en 
raged  at  my  presuming  to  intrude,  but  after  I 
got  in  my  place,  they  kept  at  it  just  the  same, 
barking  at  every  dog  as  he  come  in;  daring  him 
to  fight,  and  ordering  him  out,  and  asking  him 
what  breed  of  dog  he  thought  he  was,  anyway. 
Jimmy  Jocks  was  chained  just  behind  me,  and 
he  said  he  never  see  so  fine  a  show.  "  That's  a 
hot  class  you're  in,  my  lad,"  he  says,  looking 
over  into  my  street,  where  there  were  thirty 
bull-terriers.  They  was  all  as  white  as  cream, 
and  each  so  beautiful  that  if  I  could  have  broke 
my  chain,  I  would  have  run  all  the  way  home 
and  hid  myself  under  the  horse-trough. 

All  night  long  they  talked  and  sang,  and 
passed  greetings  with  old  pals,  and  the  home-sick 
puppies  howled  dismal.  Them  that  couldn't 
sleep  wouldn't  let  no  others  sleep,  and  all  the 
electric  lights  burned  in  the  roof,  and  in  my  eyes. 

35 


THE  BAR  SINISTER 

I  could  hear  Jimmy  Jocks  snoring  peaceful,  but 
I  could  only  doze  by  jerks,  and  when  I  dozed  I 
dreamed  horrible.  All  the  dogs  in  the  hall 
seemed  coming  at  me  for  daring  to  intrude,  with 
their  jaws  red  and  open,  and  their  eyes  blazing 
like  the  lights  in  the  roof.  "  You're  a  street-dog ! 
Get  out,  you  street-dog!"  they  yells.  And  as 
they  drives  me  out,  the  pipe-clay  drops  off  me, 
and  they  laugh  and  shriek;  and  when  I  looks 
down  I  see  that  I  have  turned  into  a  black-and- 
tan. 

They  was  most  awful  dreams,  and  next  morn 
ing,  when  Miss  Dorothy  comes  and  gives  me 
water  in  a  pan,  I  begs  and  begs  her  to  take  me 
home,  but  she  can't  understand.  "How  well 
Kid  is !"  she  says.  And  when  I  jumps  into  the 
the  Master's  arms,  and  pulls  to  break  my  chain, 
he  says,  "If  he  knew  all  as  he  had  against  him, 
miss,  he  wouldn't  be  so  gay."  And  from  a 
book  they  reads  out  the  names  of  the  beautiful 
high-bred  terriers  which  I  have  got  to  meet. 
And  I  can't  make  'em  understand  that  I  only 
want  to  run  away,  and  hide  myself  where  no 
one  will  see  me. 

Then  suddenly  men  comes  hurrying  down  our 
street  and  begins  to  brush  the  beautiful  bull-ter 
riers,  and  Nolan  rubs  me  with  a  towel  so  excited 
that  his  hands  trembles  awful,  and  Miss  Dorothy 
tweaks  my  ears  between  her  gloves,  so  that  the 

36 


THE  BAR  SINISTER 

blood  runs  to  'em,  and  they  turn  pink  and  stand 
straight  and  sharp. 

"Now,  then,  Nolan,"  says  she,  her  voice  shak 
ing  just  like  his  fingers,  "keep  his  head  up — and 
never  let  the  Judge  lose  sight  of  him."  When 
I  hears  that  my  legs  breaks  under  me,  for  I 
knows  all  about  judges.  Twice,  the  old  Master 
goes  up  before  the  Judge  for  fighting  me  with 
other  dogs,  and  the  Judge  promises  him  if  he 
ever  does  it  again,  he'll  chain  him  up  in  jail. 
I  knew  he'd  find  me  out.  A  Judge  can't  be 
fooled  by  no  pipe-clay.  He  can  see  right 
through  you,  and  he  reads  your  insides. 

The  judging- ring,  which  is  where  the  Judge 
holds  out,  was  so  like  a  fighting-pit,  that  when  I 
came  in  it,  and  find  six  other  dogs  there,  I  springs 
into  position,  so  that  when  they  lets  us  go  I  can 
defend  myself.  But  the  Master  smoothes  down 
my  hair  and  whispers,  "Hold  'ard,  Kid,  hold 
'ard.  This  ain't  a  fight,"  says  he.  "Look  your 
prettiest,"  he  whispers.  "Please,  Kid,  look 
your  prettiest,"  and  he  pulls  my  leash  so  tight 
that  I  can't  touch  my  pats  to  the  sawdust,  and 
my  nose  goes  up  in  the  air.  There  was  millions 
of  people  a-watching  us  from  the  railings,  and 
three  of  our  kennel-men,  too,  making  fun  of 
Nolan  and  me,  and  Miss  Dorothy  with  her  chin 
just  reaching  to  the  rail,  and  her  eyes  so  big 
that  I  thought  she  was  a-going  to  cry.  It  was 

37 


THE  BAR  SINISTER 

awful  to  think  that  when  the  Judge  stood  up 
and  exposed  me,  all  those  people,  and  Miss 
Dorothy,  would  be  there  to  see  me  driven  from 
the  show. 

The  Judge,  he  was  a  fierce-looking  man  with 
specs  on  his  nose,  and  a  red  beard.  When  I  first 
come  in  he  didn't  see  me  owing  to  my  being  too 
quick  for  him  and  dodging  behind  the  Master. 
But  when  the  Master  drags  me  round  and  I 
pulls  at  the  sawdust  to  keep  back,  the  Judge 
looks  at  us  careless-Iike,  and  then  stops  and 
glares  through  his  specs,  and  I  knew  it  was  all 
up  with  me. 

"Are  there  any  more?"  asks  the  Judge,  to 
the  gentleman  at  the  gate,  but  never  taking 
his  specs  from  me. 

The  man  at  the  gate  looks  in  his  book. 
"Seven  in  the  novice-class,"  says  he.  "They're 
all  here.  You  can  go  ahead,"  and  he  shuts  the 
gate. 

The  Judge,  he  doesn't  hesitate  a  moment. 
He  just  waves  his  hand  toward  the  corner  of 
the  ring.  "Take  him  away,"  he  says  to  the 
Master.  "Over  there  and  keep  him  away," 
and  he  turns  and  looks  most  solemn  at  the  six 
beautiful  bull-terriers.  I  don't  know  how  I 
crawled  to  that  corner.  I  wanted  to  scratch 
under  the  sawdust  and  dig  myself  a  grave. 
The  kennel-men  they  slapped  the  rail  with  their 
hands  and  laughed  at  the  Master  like  they  would 

38 


THE  BAR  SINISTER 

fall  over.  They  pointed  at  me  in  the  corner, 
and  their  sides  just  shaked.  But  little  Miss 
Dorothy  she  presses  her  lips  tight  against  the 
rail,  and  I  see  tears  rolling  from  her  eyes.  The 
Master,  he  hangs  his  head  like  he  had  been 
whipped.  I  felt  most  sorry  for  him,  than  all. 
He  was  so  red,  and  he  was  letting  on  not  to 
see  the  kennel-men,  and  blinking  his  eyes.  If 
the  Judge  had  ordered  me  right  out,  it  wouldn't 
have  disgraced  us  so,  but  it  was  keeping  me  there 
while  he  was  judging  the  high-bred  dogs  that 
hurt  so  hard.  With  all  those  people  staring 
too.  And  his  doing  it  so  quick,  without  no 
doubt  nor  questions.  You  can't  fool  the  judges. 
They  see  insides  you. 

But  he  couldn't  make  up  his  mind  about  them 
high-bred  dogs.  He  scowls  at  'em,  and  he  glares 
at  'em,  first  with  his  head  on  the  one  side  and 
then  on  the  other.  And  he  feels  of  'em,  and 
orders  'em  to  run  about.  And  Nolan  leans 
against  the  rails,  with  his  head  hung  down,  and 
pats  me.  Arid  Miss  Dorothy  comes  over  beside 
him,  but  don't  say  nothing,  only  wipes  her  eye 
with  her  finger.  A  man  on  the  other  side  of 
the  rail  he  says  to  the  Master,  "The  Judge  don't 
like  your  dog?" 

"No,"  says  the  Master. 

"Have  you  ever  shown  him  before?"  says  the 
man. 

"No,"  says  the  Master,  "and  I'll  never  show 

39 


THE  BAR  SINISTER 

him  again.  He's  my  dog,"  says  the  Master, 
"an'  he  suits  me!  And  I  don't  care  what  no 
judges  think."  And  when  he  says  them  kind 
words,  I  licks  his  hand  most  grateful. 

The  Judge  had  two  of  the  six  dogs  on  a  little 
platform  in  the  middle  of  the  ring,  and  he 
had  chased  the  four  other  dogs  into  the  cor 
ners,  where  they  was  licking  their  chops,  and 
letting  on  they  didn't  care>  same  as  Nolan 
was. 

The  two  dogs  on  the  platform  was  so  beautiful 
that  the  Judge  hisself  couldn't  tell  which  was 
the  best  of  'em,  even  when  he  stoops  down  and 
holds  their  heads  together.  But  at  last  he  gives 
a  sigh,  and  brushes  the  sawdust  off  his  knees 
and  goes  to  the  table  in  the  ring,  where  there 
was  a  man  keeping  score,  and  heaps  and  heaps 
of  blue  and  gold  and  red  and  yellow  ribbons. 
And  the  Judge  picks  up  a  bunch  of  'em  and 
walks  to  the  two  gentlemen  who  was  holding 
the  beautiful  dogs,  and  he  says  to  each  "What's 
his  number?"  and  he  hands  each  gentleman  a 
ribbon.  And  then  he  turned  sharp,  and  comes 
straight  at  the  Master. 

"What's  his  number?"  says  the  Judge.  And 
Master  was  so  scared  that  he  couldn't  make  no 
answer. 

But  Miss  Dorothy  claps  her  hands  and  cries 
out  like  she  was  laughing,  "Three  twenty-six," 

40 


THE  BAR  SINISTER 

and  the  Judge  writes  it  down,  and  shoves  Master 
the  blue  ribbon. 

I  bit  the  Master,  and  I  jumps  and  bit  Miss 
Dorothy,  and  I  waggled  so  hard  that  the  Master 
couldn't  hold  me.  When  I  get  to  the  gate  Miss 
Dorothy  snatches  me  up  and  kisses  me  between 
the  ears,  right  before  millions  of  people,  and  they 
both  hold  me  so  tight  that  I  didn't  know  which 
of  them  was  carrying  of  me.  But  one  thing  I 
knew,  for  I  listened  hard,  as  it  was  the  Judge 
hisself  as  said  it. 

"Did  you  see  that  puppy  I  gave  'first'  to?" 
says  the  judge  to  the  gentleman  at  the  gate. 

"I  did.  He  was  a  bit  out  of  his  class,"  says 
the  gate-gentleman. 

"He  certainly  was !"  says  the  Judge,  and  they 
both  laughed. 

But  I  didn't  care.  They  couldn't  hurt  me 
then,  not  with  Nolan  holding  the  blue  ribbon 
and  Miss  Dorothy  hugging  my  ears,  and  the 
kennel-men  sneaking  away,  each  looking  like 
he'd  been  caught  with  his  nose  under  the  lid  of 
the  slop-can. 

We  sat  down  together,  and  we  all  three  just 
talked  as  fast  as  we  could.  They  was  so  pleased 
that  I  couldn't  help  feeling  proud  myself,  and 
I  barked  and  jumped  and  leaped  about  so  gay, 
that  all  the  bull-terriers  in  our  street  stretched 
on  their  chains,  and  howled  at  me. 


THE  BAR  SINISTER 

"Just  look  at  him!"  says  one  of  those  I  had 
beat.  "What's  he  giving  hisself  airs  about?" 

"Because  he's  got  one  blue  ribbon!"   says 
another  of  'em.     "Why,  when  I  was  a  puppy  I 
used  to  eat  'em,  and  if  that  Judge  could  ever  1 
learn  to  know  a  toy  from  a  mastiff,  I'd  have  had 
this  one." 

But  Jimmy  Jocks  he  leaned  over  from  his 
bench,  and  says,  "Well  done,  Kid.  Didn't  I 
tell  you  so !"  What  he  'ad  told  me  was  that  I 
might  get  a  "commended,"  but  I  didn't  remind 
him. 

"Didn't  I  tell  you,"  says  Jimmy  Jocks,  "that 
I  saw  your  grandfather  make  his  debut  at  the 
Crystal " 

"Yes,  sir,  you  did,  sir,"  says  I,  for  I  have  no 
love  for  the  men  of  my  family. 

A  gentleman  with  a  showing  leash  around  his 
neck  comes  up  just  then  and  looks  at  me  very 
critical.  "Nice  dog  you've  got,  Miss  Wynd- 
ham,"  says  he;  "would  you  care  to  sell  him?" 

"He's  not  my  dog,"  says  Miss  Dorothy, 
holding  me  tight.  "I  wish  he  were." 

"He's  not  for  sale,  sir,"  says  the  Master,  and 
I  was  that  glad. 

"Oh,  he's  yours,  is  he?"  says  the  gentleman, 
looking  hard  at  Nolan.  "Well,  I'll  give  you  a 
hundred  dollars  for  him,"  says  he,  careless-Iike. 

"Thank  you,  sir,  he's  not  for  sale,"  says  Nolan, 
42 


THE  BAR  SINISTER 

but  his  eyes  get  very  big.  The  gentleman,  he 
walked  away,  but  I  watches  him,  and  he  talks  to 
a  man  in  a  golf-cap,  and  by  and  by  the  man 
comes  along  our  street,  looking  at  all  the  dogs, 

I  and  stops  in  front  of  me. 
"This  your  dog?"  says  he  to  Nolan.  "Pity 
he's  so  leggy,"  says  he.  "If  he  had  a  good  tail, 
and  a  longer  stop,  and  his  ears  were  set  higher, 
he'd  be  a  good  dog.  As  he  is,  I'll  give  you  fifty 
dollars  for  him." 

But,  before  the  Master  could  speak,  Miss 
Dorothy  laughs,  and  says,  "You're  Mr.  Folk's 
kennel-man,  I  believe.  Well,  you  tell  Mr.  Polk 
from  me  that  the  dog's  not  for  sale  now  any  more 
than  he  was  five  minutes  ago,  and  that  when  he 
is,  he'll  have  to  bid  against  me  for  him."  The 
man  looks  foolish  at  that,  but  he  turns  to  Nolan 
quick-like.  "I'll  give  you  three  hundred  for 
him,"  he  says. 

"Oh,  indeed!"  whispers  Miss  Dorothy,  like 
she  was  talking  to  herself.  "That's  it,  is  it," 
and  she  turns  and  looks  at  me  as  though  she 
had  never  seen  me  before.  Nolan,  he  was  gap 
ing,  too,  with  his  mouth  open.  But  he  holds  me 
tight.  ( 

"He's  not  for  sale,"  he  growls,  like  he  was 
frightened,  and  the  man  looks  black  and  walks 
away. 

"Why,  Nolan!"  cries  Miss  Dorothy,  "Mr. 

43 


THE  BAR  SINISTER 

Polk  knows  more  about  bull-terriers  than  any 
amateur  in  America.  What  can  he  mean? 
Why,  Kid  is  no  more  than  a  puppy!  Three 
hundred  dollars  for  a  puppy!" 

"And  he  ain't  no  thoroughbred  neither!" 
cries  the  Master.  "He's  'Unknown/  ain't  he? 
Kid  can't  help  it,  of  course,  but  his  mother, 
Miss " 

I  dropped  my  head.  I  couldn't  bear  he  should 
tell  Miss  Dorothy.  I  couldn't  bear  she  should 
know  I  had  stolen  my  blue  ribbon. 

But  the  Master  never  told,  for  at  that,  a 
gentleman  runs  up,  calling,  "Three  Twenty-Six, 
Three  Twenty-Six,"  and  Miss  Dorothy  says, 
"Here  he  is,  what  is  it?" 

"The  Winner's  Class,"  says  the  gentleman. 
"Hurry,  please.  The  Judge  is  waiting  for 
him." 

Nolan  tries  to  get  me  off  the  chain  onto  a 
showing  leash,  but  he  shakes  so,  he  only  chokes 
me.  "What  is  it,  Miss?"  he  says.  "What 
is  it?" 

"The  Winner's  Class,"  says  Miss  Dorothy. 
"The  Judge  wants  him  with  the  winners  of  the 
other  classes — to  decide  which  is  the  best.  It's 
only  a  form,"  says  she.  "He  has  the  champions 
against  him  now." 

"Yes,"  says  the  gentleman,  as  he  hurries  us  to 
the  ring.  "I'm  afraid  it's  only  a  form  for  your 

44 


THE  BAR  SINISTER 

dog,  but  the  Judge  wants  all  the  winners,  puppy 
class  even." 

We  had  got  to  the  gate,  and  the  gentleman 
there  was  writing  down  my  number. 

"Who  won  the  open?"  asks  Miss  Dorothy. 

"Oh,  who  would?"  laughs  the  gentleman. 
"The  old  champion,  of  course.  He's  won  for 
three  years  now.  There  he  is.  Isn't  he  wonder 
ful?"  says  he,  and  he  points  to  a  dog  that's 
standing  proud  and  haughty  on  the  platform 
in  the  middle  of  the  ring. 

I  never  see  so  beautiful  a  dog,  so  fine  and  clean 
and  noble,  so  white  like  he  had  rolled  hisself  in 
flour,  holding  his  nose  up  and  his  eyes  shut,  same 
as  though  no  one  was  worth  looking  at.  Aside 
of  him,  we  other  dogs,  even  though  we  had  a  blue 
ribbon  apiece,  seemed  like  lumps  of  mud.  He 
was  a  royal  gentleman,  a  king,  he  was.  His 
Master  didn't  have  to  hold  his  head  with  no 
leash.  He  held  it  hisself,  standing  as  still  as 
an  iron  dog  on  a  lawn,  like  he  knew  all  the 
people  was  looking  at  him.  And  so  they  was, 
and  no  one  around  the  ring  pointed  at  no  other 
dog  but  him. 

"Oh,  what  a  picture,"  cried  Miss  Dorothy; 
"he's  like  a  marble  figure  by  a  great  artist — one 
who  loved  dogs.  Who  is  he?"  says  she,  looking 
in  her  book.  "I  don't  keep  up  with  terriers." 

"Oh,  you  know  him,"  says  the  gentleman. 
45 


THE  BAR  SINISTER 

"He  is  the  Champion  of  champions,  Regent 
Royal." 

The  Master's  face  went  red. 

"And  this  is  Regent  Royal's  son,"  cries  he, 
and  he  pulls  me  quick  into  the  ring,  and  plants 
me  on  the  platform  next  my  father. 

I  trembled  so  that  I  near  fall.  My  legs 
twisted  like  a  leash.  But  my  father  he  never 
looked  at  me.  He  only  smiled,  the  same  sleepy 
smile,  and  he  still  keep  his  eyes  half-shut,  like 
as  no  one,  no,  not  even  his  son,  was  worth  his 
lookin'  at. 

The  Judge,  he  didn't  let  me  stay  beside  my 
father,  but,  one  by  one,  he  placed  the  other  dogs 
next  to  him  and  measured  and  felt  and  pulled  at 
them.  And  each  one  he  put  down,  but  he  never 
put  my  father  down.  And  then  he  comes  over 
and  picks  up  me  and  sets  me  back  on  the  plat 
form,  shoulder  to  shoulder  with  the  Champion 
Regent  Royal,  and  goes  down  on  his  knees,  and 
looks  into  our  eyes. 

The  gentleman  with  my  father,  he  laughs, 
and  says  to  the  Judge,  "Thinking  of  keeping  us 
here  all  day,  John?"  but  the  Judge,  he  doesn't 
hear  him,  and  goes  behind  us  and  runs  his  hand 
down  my  side,  and  holds  back  my  ears,  and  takes 
my  jaw  between  his  fingers.  The  crowd  around 
the  ring  is  very  deep  now,  and  nobody  says 
nothing.  The  gentleman  at  the  score-table,  he 


THE  BAR  SINISTER 

is  leaning  forward,  with  his  elbows  on  his  knees, 
and  his  eyes  very  wide,  and  the  gentleman  at 
the  gate  is  whispering  quick  to  Miss  Dorothy, 
who  has  turned  white.  I  stood  as  stiff  as  stone. 
I  didn't  even  breathe.  But  out  of  the  corner  of 
mY  eye  I  could  see  my  father  licking  his  pink 
chops,  and  yawning  just  a  little,  like  he  was 
bored. 

The  Judge,  he  had  stopped  looking  fierce,  and 
was  looking  solemn.  Something  inside  him 
seemed  a  troubling  him  awful.  The  more  he 
stares  at  us  now,  the  more  solemn  he  gets,  and 
when  he  touches  us  he  does  it  gentle,  like  he 
was  patting  us.  For  a  long  time  he  kneels  in 
the  sawdust,  looking  at  my  father  and  at  me, 
and  no  one  around  the  ring  says  nothing  to 
nobody. 

Then  the  Judge  takes  a  breath  and  touches  me 
sudden.  "It's  his,"  he  says,  but  he  lays  his 
hand  just  as  quick  on  my  father.  "I'm  sorry," 
says  he. 

The  gentleman  holding  my  father  cries: 

"Do  you  mean  to  tell  me " 

And  the  Judge,  he  answers,  "  I  mean  the  other 
is  the  better  dog."  He  takes  my  father's  head 
between  his  hands  and  looks  down  at  him,  most 
sorrowful.  "The  King  is  dead,"  says  he,  "long 
live  the  King.  Good-by,  Regent,"  he  says. 

The  crowd  around  the  railings  clapped  their 
47 


THE  BAR  SINISTER 

hands,  and  some  laughed  scornful,  and  every 
one  talks  fast,  and  I  start  for  the  gate  so  dizzy 
that  I  can't  see  my  way.  But  my  father  pushes 
in  front  of  me,  walking  very  daintily,  and  smil 
ing  sleepy,  same  as  he  had  just  been  waked, 
with  his  head  high,  and  his  eyes  shut,  looking 
at  nobody. 

So  that  is  how  I  "came  by  my  inheritance/' 
as  Miss  Dorothy  calls  it,  and  just  for  that, 
though  I  couldn't  feel  where  I  was  any  different, 
the  crowd  follows  me  to  my  bench,  and  pats 
me,  and  coos  at  me,  like  I  was  a  baby  in  a  baby- 
carriage.  And  the  handlers  have  to  hold  'em 
back  so  that  the  gentlemen  from  the  papers 
can  make  pictures  of  me,  and  Nolan  walks  me 
up  and  down  so  proud,  and  the  men  shakes 
their  heads  and  says,  "He  certainly  is  the  true 
type,  he  is!"  And  the  pretty  ladies  asks  Miss 
Dorothy,  who  sits  beside  me  letting  me  lick  her 
gloves  to  show  the  crowd  what  friends  we  is, 
"Aren't  you  afraid  he'll  bite  you?"  and  Jimmy 
Jocks  calls  to  me,  "Didn't  I  tell  you  so  !  I  always 
knew  you  were  one  of  us.  Blood  will  out,  Kid, 
blood  will  out.  I  saw  your  grandfather,"  says 
he,  "make  his  debut  at  the  Crystal  Palace. 
But  he  was  never  the  dog  you  are !" 

After  that,  if  I  could  have  asked  for  it,  there 
was  nothing  I  couldn't  get.  You  might  have 
thought  I  was  a  snow-dog,  and  they  was  afeerd 

48 


THE  BAR  SINISTER 

Fd  melt.  If  I  wet  my  pats,  Nolan  gave  me  a 
hot  bath  and  chained  me  to  the  stove;  if  I 
couldn't  eat  my  food,  being  stuffed  full  by  the 
cook,  for  I  am  a  house-dog  now,  and  let  in  to 
lunch  whether  there  is  visitors  or  not,  Nolan 
would  run  to  bring  the  vet.  It  was  all  tommy- 
rot,  as  Jimmy  says,  but  meant  most  kind.  I 
couldn't  scratch  myself  comfortable,  without 
Nolan  giving  me  nasty  drinks,  and  rubbing  me 
outside  till  it  burnt  awful,  and  I  wasn't  let  to 
eat  bones  for  fear  of  spoiling  my  "beautiful" 
mouth,  what  mother  used  to  call  my  "punishing 
jaw,"  and  my  food  was  cooked  special  on  a  gas- 
stove,  and  Miss  Dorothy  gives  me  an  overcoat, 
cut  very  stylish  like  the  champions',  to  wear 
when  we  goes  out  carriage-driving. 

After  the  next  show,  where  I  takes  three  blue 
ribbons,  four  silver  cups,  two  medals,  and  brings 
home  forty-five  dollars  for  Nolan,  they  gives  me 
a  "Registered"  name,  same  as  Jimmy's.  Miss 
Dorothy  wanted  to  call  me  "Regent  Heir 
Apparent,"  but  I  was  THAT  glad  when  Nolan 
says,  "No,  Kid  don't  owe  nothing  to  his  father, 
only  to  you  and  hisself.  So,  if  you  please, 
Miss,  we'll  call  him  Wyndham  Kid."  And  so 
they  did,  and  you  can  see  it  on  my  overcoat  in 
blue  letters,  and  painted  top  of  my  kennel. 
It  was  all  too  hard  to  understand.  For  days  I 
just  sat  and  wondered  if  I  was  really,  me,  and 

49 


THE  BAR  SINISTER 

how  it  all  come  about,  and  why  everybody  was 
so  kind.  But,  oh,  it  was  so  good  they  was,  for 
if  they  hadn't  been,  I'd  never  have  got  the  thing 
I  most  wished  after.  But,  because  they  was 
kind,  and  not  liking  to  deny  me  nothing,  they 
gave  it  me,  and  it  was  more  to  me  than  anything 
in  the  world. 

It  came  about  one  day  when  we  was  out  driv 
ing.  We  was  in  the  cart  they  calls  the  dog-cart, 
because  it's  the  one  Miss  Dorothy  keeps  to  take 
Jimmy  and  me  for  an  airing.  Nolan  was  up 
behind,  and  me  in  my  new  overcoat  was  sitting 
beside  Miss  Dorothy.  I  was  admiring  the  view, 
and  thinking  how  good  it  was  to  have  a  horse 
pull  you  about  so  that  you  needn't  get  yourself 
splashed  and  have  to  be  washed,  when  I  hears  a 
dog  calling  loud  for  help,  and  I  pricks  up  my 
ears  and  looks  over  the  horse's  head.  And  I 
sees  something  that  makes  me  tremble  down  to 
my  toes.  In  the  road  before  us  three  big  dogs 
was  chasing  a  little,  old  lady-dog.  She  had  a 
string  to  her  tail,  where  some  boys  had  tied  a 
can,  and  she  was  dirty  with  mud  and  ashes, 
and  torn  most  awful.  She  was  too  far  done  up 
to  get  away,  and  too  old  to  help  herself,  but  she 
was  making  a  fight  for  her  life,  snapping  her  old 
gums  savage,  and  dying  game.  All  this  I  see 
in  a  wink,  and  then  the  three  dogs  pinned  her 
down,  and  I  can't  stand  it  no  longer  and  clears 

50 


THE  BAR  SINISTER 

the  wheel  and  lands  in  the  road  on  my  head. 
It  was  my  stylish  overcoat  done  that,  and  I 
curse  it  proper,  but  I  gets  my  pats  again  quick, 
and  makes  a  rush  for  the  fighting.  Behind  me 
I  hear  Miss  Dorothy  cry,  "They'll  kill  that  old 
dog.  Wait,  take  my  whip.  Beat  them  off  her ! 
The  Kid  can  take  care  of  himself,"  and  I  hear 
Nolan  fall  into  the  road,  and  the  horse  come  to 
a  stop.  The  old  lady-dog  was  down,  and  the 
three  was  eating  her  vicious,  but  as  I  come  up, 
scattering  the  pebbles,  she  hears,  and  thinking 
it's  one  more  of  them,  she  lifts  her  head  and 
my  heart  breaks  open  like  some  one  had  sunk 
his  teeth  in  it.  For,  under  the  ashes  and  the 
dirt  and  the  blood,  I  can  see  who  it  is,  and  I 
know  that  my  mother  has  come  back  to  me. 

I  gives  a  yell  that  throws  them  three  dogs  off 
their  legs. 

"Mother!"  I  cries.  "I'm  the  Kid,"  I  cries. 
"I'm  coming  to  you,  mother,  I'm  coming." 

And  I  shoots  over  her,  at  the  throat  of  the  big 
dog,  and  the  other  two,  they  sinks  their  teeth 
into  that  stylish  overcoat,  and  tears  it  off  me, 
and  that  sets  me  free,  and  I  lets  them  have  it. 
I  never  had  so  fine  a  fight  as  that !  What  with 
mother  being  there  to  see,  and  not  having  been 
let  to  mix  up  in  no  fights  since  I  become  a  prize 
winner,  it  just  naturally  did  me  good,  and  it 
wasn't  three  shakes  before  I  had  'em  yelping. 

5* 


THE  BAR  SINISTER 

Quick  as  a  wink,  mother,  she  jumps  in  to  help 
me,  and  I  just  laughed  to  see  her.  It  was  so 
like  old  times.  And  Nolan,  he  made  me  laugh 
too.  He  was  like  a  hen  on  a  bank,  shaking  the 
butt  of  his  whip,  but  not  daring  to  cut  in  for 
fear  of  hitting  me. 

"Stop  it,  Kid,"  he  says,  "stop  it.  Do  you 
want  to  be  all  torn  up?"  says  he.  " Think  of 
the  Boston  show  next  week,"  says  he.  "  Think 
of  Chicago.  Think  of  Danbury.  Don't  you 
never  want  to  be  a  champion?"  How  was  I 
to  think  of  all  them  places  when  I  had  three 
dogs  to  cut  up  at  the  same  time.  But  in  a 
minute  two  of  'em  begs  for  mercy,  and  mother 
and  me  lets  'em  run  away.  The  big  one,  he 
ain't  able  to  run  away.  Then  mother  and  me, 
we  dances  and  jumps,  and  barks  and  laughs, 
and  bites  each  other  and  rolls  each  other  in  the 
road.  There  never  was  two  dogs  so  happy  as 
we,  and  Nolan,  he  whistles  and  calls  and  begs 
me  to  come  to  him,  but  I  just  laugh  and  play 
larks  with  mother. 

"Now,  you  come  with  me,"  says  I,  "to  my 
new  home,  and  never  try  to  run  away  again." 
And  I  shows  her  our  house  with  the  five  red 
roofs,  set  on  the  top  of  the  hill.  But  mother 
trembles  awful,  and  says:  "They'd  never  let 
the  likes  of  me  in  such  a  place.  Does  the 
Viceroy  live  there,  Kid?"  says  she.  And  I 


THE  BAR  SINISTER 

laugh  at  her.  "No,  I  do,"  I  says;  "and  if 
they  won't  let  you  live  there,  too,  you  and  me 
will  go  back  to  the  streets  together,  for  we  must 
never  be  parted  no  more."  So  we  trots  up  the 
hill,  side  by  side,  with  Nolan  trying  to  catch  me, 
and  Miss  Dorothy  laughing  at  him  from  the 
cart. 

'The  Kid's  made  friends  with  the  poor  old 
dog,"  says  she.  "Maybe  he  knew  her  long  ago 
when  he  ran  the  streets  himself.  Put  her  in 
here  beside  me,  and  see  if  he  doesn't  follow." 

So,  when  I  hears  that,  I  tells  mother  to  go 
with  Nolan  and  sit  in  the  cart,  but  she  says  no, 
that  she'd  soil  the  pretty  lady's  frock;  but  I 
tells  her  to  do  as  I  say,  and  so  Nolan  lifts  her, 
trembling  still,  into  the  cart,  and  I  runs  along 
side,  barking  joyful. 

When  we  drives  into  the  stables  I  takes 
mother  to  my  kennel,  and  tells  her  to  go  inside 
it  and  make  herself  at  home.  "Oh,  but  he 
won't  let  me!"  says  she. 

"Who  won't  let  you?"  says  I,  keeping  my 
eye  on  Nolan,  and  growling  a  bit  nasty,  just  to 
show  I  was  meaning  to  have  my  way. 

uWhy,  Wyndham  Kid,"  says  she,  looking  up 
at  the  name  on  my  kennel. 

^But  I'm  Wyndham  Kid!"  says  1. 

r'You!"  cries  mother.  "You!  Is  my  little 
Kid  the  great  Wyndham  Kid  the  dogs,  all  talk 

53 


THE  BAR  SINISTER 

about?"  And  at  that,  she,  being  very  old,  and 
sick,  and  hungry,  and  nervous,  as  mothers  are, 
just  drops  down  in  the  straw  and  weeps  bitter. 

Well,  there  ain't  much  more  than  that  to 
tell.  Miss  Dorothy,  she  settled  it. 

"  If  the  Kid  wants  the  poor  old  thing  in  the 
stables,"  says  she,  "let  her  stay." 

"You  see,"  says  she,  "she's  a  black-and-tan, 
and  his  mother  was  a  black-and-tan,  and  maybe 
that's  what  makes  Kid  feel  so  friendly  toward 
!her,"  says  she. 

"Indeed,  for  me,"  says  Nolan,  "she  can  have 
the  best  there  is.  I'd  never  drive  out  no  dog 
that  asks  for  a  crust  nor  a  shelter,"  he  says. 
"But  what  will  Mr.  Wyndham  do?" 

"He'll  do  what  I  say,"  says  Miss  Dorothy, 
"and  if  I  say  she's  to  stay,  she  will  stay,  and  I 
say — she's  to  stay!" 

And  so  mother  and  Nolan,  and  me,  found  a 
home.  Mother  was  scared  at  first — not  being 
used  to  kind  people — but  she  was  so  gentle  and 
loving,  that  the  grooms  got  fonder  of  her  than 
of  me,  and  tried  to  make  me  jealous  by  patting 
of  her,  and  giving  her  the  pick  of  the  vittles. 
But  that  was  the  wrong  way  to  hurt  my  feelings. 
That's  all,  I  think.  Mother  is  so  happy  here 
that  I  tell  her  we  ought  to  call  it  the  Happy 
Hunting  Grounds,  because  no  one  hunts  you, 
and  there  is  nothing  to  hunt;  it  just  all  comes 

54 


THE  BAR  SINISTER 

to  you.  And  so  we  live  in  peace,  mother  sleep 
ing  all  day  in  the  sun,  or  behind  the  stove  in  the 
head-groom's  office,  being  fed  twice  a  day  regu 
lar  by  Nolan,  and  all  the  day  by  the  other 
grooms  most  irregular.  And,  as  for  me,  I  go 
hurrying  around  the  country  to  the  bench- 
shows;  winning  money  and  cups  for  Nolan, 
and  taking  the  blue  ribbons  away  from  father, 


A  QUESTION  OF  LATITUDE 

OF  the  school  of  earnest  young  writers  at 
whom  the  word  muckraker  had  been  thrown 
in  opprobrium,  and  by  whom  it  had  been 
caught  up  as  a  title  of  honor,  Everett  was 
among  the  younger  and  less  conspicuous.  But, 
if  in  his  skirmishes  with  graft  and  corruption 
he  had  failed  to  correct  the  evils  he  attacked, 
from  the  contests  he  himself  had  always  emerged 
with  credit.  His  sincerity  and  his  methods 
were  above  suspicion.  No  one  had  caught  him 
in  misstatement,  or  exaggeration.  Even  those 
whom  he  attacked,  admitted  he  fought  fair. 
For  these  reasons,  the  editors  of  magazines, 
with  the  fear  of  libel  before  their  eyes,  regarded 
him  as  a  "safe"  man,  the  public,  feeling  that 
the  evils  he  exposed  were  due  to  its  own  indif 
ference,  with  uncomfortable  approval,  and  those 
he  attacked,  with  impotent  anger.  Their  anger 
was  impotent  because,  in  the  case  of  Everett, 
the  weapons  used  by  their  class  in  "striking 
back"  were  denied  them.  They  could  not  say 
that  for  money  he  sold  sensations,  because  it 
was  known  that  a  proud  and  wealthy  parent 
supplied  him  with  all  the  money  he  wanted. 


A  QUESTION  OF  LATITUDE 

Nor  in  his  private  life  could  they  find  anything 
to  offset  his  attacks  upon  the  misconduct  of 
others.  Men  had  been  sent  to  spy  upon  him, 
and  women  to  lay  traps.  But  the  men  reported 
that  his  evenings  were  spent  at  his  club,  and, 
from  the  women,  those  who  sent  them  learned 
only  that  Everett  "treats  a  lady  just  as  though 
she  is  a  lady." 

Accordingly,  when,  with  much  trumpeting,  he 
departed  to  investigate  conditions  in  the  Congo, 
there  were  some  who  rejoiced. 

The  standard  of  life  to  which  Everett  was 
accustomed  was  high.  In  his  home  in  Boston 
it  had  been  set  for  him  by  a  father  and  mother 
who,  though  critics  rather  than  workers  in  the 
world,  had  taught  him  to  despise  what  was 
mean  and  ungenerous,  to  write  the  truth  and 
abhor  a  compromise.  At  Harvard  he  had  in 
terested  himself  in  municipal  reform,  and  when 
later  he  moved  to  New  York,  he  transferred  his 
interest  to  the  problems  of  that  city.  His  at-* 
tack  upon  Tammany  Hall  did  not  utterly  de 
stroy  that  organization,  but  at  once  brought 
him  to  the  notice  of  the  editors.  By  them  he 
was  invited  to  tilt  his  lance  at  evils  in  other 
parts  of  the  United  States,  at  "systems," 
trusts,  convict  camps,  municipal  misrule.  His 
work  had  met  with  a  measure  of  success  that 
seemed  to  justify  Lowell's  Weekly  in  sending 

57 


A  QUESTION  OF  LATITUDE 

him  further  afield,  and  he  now  was  on  his  way 
to  tell  the  truth  about  the  Congo.  Personally, 
Everett  was  a  healthy,  clean-minded  enthusiast. 
He  possessed  all  of  the  advantages  of  youth, 
and  all  of  its  intolerance.  He  was  supposed  to 
be  engaged  to  Florence  Carey,  but  he  was  not. 
There  was,  however,  between  them  an  "under 
standing,"  which  understanding,  as  Everett 
understood  it,  meant  that  until  she  was  ready 
to  say,  "I  am  ready,"  he  was  to  think  of  her, 
dream  of  her,  write  love-letters  to  her,  and 
keep  himself  only  for  her.  He  loved  her  very 
dearly,  and,  having  no  choice,  was  content  to 
wait.  His  content  was  fortunate,  as  Miss 
Carey  seemed  inclined  to  keep  him  waiting  in 
definitely. 

Except  in  Europe,  Everett  had  never  trav 
elled  outside  the  limits  of  his  own  country. 
But  the  new  land  toward  which  he  was  advanc 
ing  held  no  terrors.  As  he  understood  it,  the 
Congo  was  at  the  mercy  of  a  corrupt  "ring." 
In  every  part  of  the  United  States  he  had  found 
a  city  in  the  clutch  of  a  corrupt  ring.  The  con 
ditions  would  be  the  same,  the  methods  he 
would  use  to  get  at  the  truth  would  be  the 
same,  the  result  for  reform  would  be  the 
same. 

The  English  steamer  on  which  he  sailed  for 
Southampton  was  one  leased  by  the  Indepen- 

58 


A  QUESTION  OF  LATITUDE 

dent  State  of  the  Congo,  and,  with  a  few  ex 
ceptions,  her  passengers  were  subjects  of  King 
Leopold.  On  board,  the  language  was  French, 
at  table  the  men  sat  according  to  the  rank  they 
held  in  the  administration  of  the  jungle,  and 
each  in  his  buttonhole  wore  the  tiny  silver  star 
that  showed  that  for  three  years,  to  fill  the 
storehouses  of  the  King  of  the  Belgians,  he  had 
gathered  rubber  and  ivory.  In  the  smoking- 
room  Everett  soon  discovered  that  passengers 
not  in  the  service  of  that  king,  the  English  and 
German  officers  and  traders,  held  aloof  from 
the  Belgians.  Their  attitude  toward  them 
seemed  to  be  one  partly  of  contempt,  partly 
of  pity. 

"Are  your  English  protectorates  on  the  coast, 
then,  so  much  better  administered?"  Everett 
asked. 

The  English  Coaster,  who  for  ten  years  in 
Nigeria  had  escaped  fever  and  sudden  death, 
laughed  evasively. 

"I  have  never  been  in  the  Congo,"  he  said. 
"Only  know  what  they  tell  one.  But  you'll  see 
for  yourself.  That  is,"  he  added,  "you'll  see 
what  they  want  you  to  see." 

They  were  leaning  on  the  rail,  with  their  eyes 
turned  toward  the  coast  of  Liberia,  a  gloomy 
green  line  against  which  the  waves  cast  up 
fountains  of  foam  as  high  as  the  -cocoanut 

59 


A  QUESTION  OF  LATITUDE 

palms.  As  a  subject  of  discussion,  the  Coaster 
seemed  anxious  to  avoid  the  Congo. 

"It  was  there,"  he  said,  pointing,  "the  Three 
Castles  struck  on  the  rocks.  She  was  a  total 
loss.  So  were  her  passengers,"  he  added. 
"They  ate  them." 

Everett  gazed  suspiciously  at  the  unmoved 
face  of  the  veteran. 

"Who  ate  them?"  he  asked  guardedly. 
"Sharks?" 

"The  natives  that  live  back  of  that  shore 
line  in  the  lagoons." 

Everett  laughed  with  the  assurance  of  one 
for  whom  a  trap  had  been  laid  and  who  had 
cleverly  avoided  it. 

"Cannibals,"  he  mocked.  "Cannibals  went 
out  of  date  with  pirates.  But  perhaps,"  he 
added  apologetically,  "this  happened  some 
years  ago?" 

"Happened  last  month,"  said  the  trader. 

"But  Liberia  is  a  perfectly  good  republic," 
protested  Everett.  "The  blacks  there  may 
not  be  as  far  advanced  as  in  your  colonies,  but 
they're  not  cannibals." 

"Monrovia  is  a  very  small  part  of  Liberia," 
said  the  trader  dryly.  "And  none  of  these  pro 
tectorates,  or  crown  colonies,  on  this  coast  pre 
tends  to  control  much  of  the  Hinterland.  There 
is  Sierra  Leone,  for  instance,  about  the  oldest 

60 


A  QUESTION  OF  LATITUDE 

'of  them.  Last  year  the  governor  celebrated 
the  hundredth  anniversary  of  the  year  the 
British  abolished  slavery.  They  had  parades 
and  tea-fights,  and  all  the  blacks  were  in  the 
street  in  straw  hats  with  cricket  ribbons,  thank 
ing  God  they  were  not  as  other  men  are,  not 
slaves  like  their  grandfathers.  Well,  just  at 
the  height  of  the  jubilation,  the  tribes  within 
twenty  miles  of  the  town  sent  in  to  say  that 
they,  also,  were  holding  a  palaver,  and  it  was 
to  mark  the  fact  that  they  never  had  been 
slaves  and  never  would  be,  and,  if  the  governor 
doubted  it,  to  send  out  his  fighting  men  and 
they'd  prove  it.  It  cast  quite  a  gloom  over  the 
celebration." 

"Do  you  mean  that  only  twenty  miles  from 
the  coast—  '  began  Everett. 

"Ten  miles,"  said  the  Coaster.  "Wait  till 
you  see  Calabar.  That's  our  Exhibit  A.  The 
cleanest,  best  administered.  Everything  there 
is  model:  hospitals,  barracks,  golf  links.  Last 
year,  ten  miles  from  Calabar,  Dr.  Stewart  rode 
his  bicycle  into  a  native  village.  The  king  tor 
tured  him  six  days,  cut  him  up,  and  sent  pieces 
of  him  to  fifty  villages  with  the  message:  'You 
eat  each  other.  We  eat  white  chop.'  That 
was  ten  miles  from  our  model  barracks." 

For  some  moments  the  muckraker  considered 
the  statement  thoughtfully. 

61  ' 


A  QUESTION  OF  LATITUDE 

"You  mean,"  he  inquired,  "that  the  atroci 
ties  are  not  all  on  the  side  of  the  white 
men?" 

"Atrocities?"  exclaimed  the  trader.  "I 
wasn't  talking  of  atrocities.  Are  you  looking 
for  them?" 

"I'm  not  running  away  from  them,"  laughed 
Everett.  "Lowell's  Weekly  is  sending  me  to 
the  Congo  to  find  out  the  truth,  and  to  try  to 
help  put  an  end  to  them." 

In  his  turn  the  trader  considered  the  state 
ment  carefully. 

"Among  the  natives,"  he  explained,  pains 
takingly  picking  each  word,  "what  you  call 
'atrocities'  are  customs  of  warfare,  forms  of 
punishment.  When  they  go  to  war  they  expect 
to  be  tortured;  they  know,  if  they're  killed, 
they'll  be  eaten.  The  white  man  comes  here 
and  finds  these  customs  have  existed  for  cen 
turies.  He  adopts  them,  because— 

"One  moment!"  interrupted  Everett  warmly. 
"That  does  not  excuse  him.  The  point  is,  that 
with  him  they  have  not  existed.  To  him  they 
should  be  against  his  conscience,  indecent,  hor 
rible!  He  has  a  greater  knowledge,  a  much 
higher  intelligence;  he  should  lift  the  native, 
not  sink  to  him." 

The  Coaster  took  his  pipe  from  his  mouth, 
and  twice  opened  his  lips  to  speak.  Finally, 

62 


A  QUESTION  OF  LATITUDE 

he  blew  the  smoke  into  the  air,  and  shook  his 
head. 

"What's  the  use!"  he  exclaimed. 

"Try,"  laughed  Everett.  "Maybe  I'm  not 
as  unintelligent  as  I  talk." 

"You  must  get  this  right,"  protested  the 
Coaster.  "It  doesn't  matter  a  damn  what  a 
man  brings  here,  what  his  training  was,  what 
he  is.  The  thing  is  too  strong  for  him." 

"What  thing?" 

"That!"  said  the  Coaster.  He  threw  out 
his  arm  at  the  brooding  mountains,  the  dark 
lagoons,  the  glaring  coast-line  against  which 
the  waves  shot  into  the  air  with  the  shock  and 
roar  of  twelve-inch  guns. 

"The  first  white  man  came  to  Sierra  Leone 
five  hundred  years  before  Christ,"  said  the 
Coaster.  "And,  in  twenty-two  hundred  years, 
he's  got  just  twenty  miles  inland.  The  native 
didn't  need  forts,  or  a  navy,  to  stop  him.  He 
had  three  allies :  those  waves,  the  fever,  and  the 
sun.  Especially  the  sun.  The  black  man  goes 
bare-headed,  and  the  sun  lets  him  pass.  The 
white  man  covers  his  head  with  an  inch  of  cork, 
and  the  sun  strikes  through  it  and  kills  him. 
When  Jameson  came  down  the  river  from  Yam- 
buya,  the  natives  fired  on  his  boat.  He  waved 
his  helmet  at  them  for  three  minutes,  to  show 
them  there  was  a  white  man  in  the  canoe. 

63 


A  QUESTION  OF  LATITUDE 

Three  minutes  was  all  the  sun  wanted.  Jame 
son  died  in  two  days.  Where  you  are  going, 
the  sun  does  worse  things  to  a  man  than  kill 
him:  it  drives  him  mad.  It  keeps  the  fear  of 
death  in  his  heart;  and  that  takes  away  his 
nerve  and  his  sense  of  proportion.  He  flies  into 
murderous  fits,  over  silly,  imaginary  slights;  he 
grows  morbid,  suspicious,  he  becomes  a  coward, 
and  because  he  is  a  coward  with  authority,  he 
becomes  a  bully. 

"He  is  alone,  we  will  suppose,  at  a  station 
three  hundred  miles  from  any  other  white  man. 
One  morning  his  house-boy  spills  a  cup  of  coffee 
on  him,  and  in  a  rage  he  half  kills  the  boy. 
He  broods  over  that,  until  he  discovers,  or  his 
crazy  mind  makes  him  think  he  has  discovered, 
that  in  revenge  the  boy  is  plotting  to  poison 
him.  So  he  punishes  him  again.  Only  this 
time  he  punishes  him  as  the  black  man  has 
taught  him  to  punish,  in  the  only  way  the 
black  man  seems  to  understand;  that  is,  he 
tortures  him.  From  that  moment  the  fall  of 
that  man  is  rapid.  The  heat,  the  loneliness, 
the  fever,  the  fear  of  the  black  faces,  keep  him 
on  edge,  rob  him  of  sleep,  rob  him  of  his  physi 
cal  strength,  of  his  moral  strength.  He  loses 
shame,  loses  reason;  becomes  cruel,  weak,  de 
generate.  He  invents  new,  bestial  tortures; 
commits  new,  unspeakable  'atrocities/  until, 
one  day,  the  natives  turn  and  kill  him,  or  he 

64 


A  QUESTION  OF  LATITUDE 

sticks  his  gun  in  his  mouth  and  blows  the  top 
of  his  head  off." 

The  Coaster  smiled  tolerantly  at  the  wide- 
eyed,  eager  young  man  at  his  side. 

"And  you,"  he  mocked,  "think  you  can  re 
form  that  man,  and  that  hell  above  ground 
called  the  Congo,  with  an  article  in  Lowell's 
Weekly ?" 

Undismayed,  Everett  grinned  cheerfully. 

"That's  what  I'm  here  for!"  he  said. 

By  the  time  Everett  reached  the  mouth  of 
the  Congo,  he  had  learned  that  in  everything 
he  must  depend  upon  himself;  that  he  would 
be  accepted  only  as  the  kind  of  man  that,  at 
the  moment,  he  showed  himself  to  be.  This 
attitude  of  independence  was  not  chosen,  but 
forced  on  him  by  the  men  with  whom  he  came 
in  contact.  Associations  and  traditions,  that 
in  every  part  of  the  United  States  had  served 
as  letters  of  introduction,  and  enabled  strangers 
to  identify  and  label  him,  were  to  the  white 
men  on  the  steamer  and  at  the  ports  of  call 
without  meaning  or  value.  That  he  was  an 
Everett  of  Boston  conveyed  little  to  those  who 
had  not  heard  even  of  Boston.  That  he  was 
the  correspondent  of  Lowell's  Weekly  meant  less 
to  those  who  did  not  know  that  Lowell's  Weekly 
existed.  And  when,  in  confusion,  he  proffered 
his  letter  of  credit,  the  very  fact  that  it  called 
for  a  thousand  pounds  was,  in  the  eyes  of  a 


A  QUESTION  OF  LATITUDE 

"Palm  Oil  Ruffian,"  sufficient  evidence  that 
it  had  been  forged  or  stolen.  He  soon  saw  that 
solely  as  a  white  man  was  he  accepted  and 
made  welcome.  That  he  was  respectable,  few 
believed,  and  no  one  cared.  To  be  taken  at 
his  face  value,  to  be  refused  at  the  start  the 
benefit  of  the  doubt,  was  a  novel  sensation; 
and  yet  not  unpleasant.  It  was  a  relief  not  to 
be  accepted  only  as  Everett  the  Muckraker,  as 
a  professional  reformer,  as  one  holier  than 
others.  It  afforded  his  soul  the  same  relaxa 
tion  that  his  body  received  when,  in  his  shirt 
sleeves  in  the  sweltering  smoking-room,  he 
drank  beer  with  a  chef  de  poste  who  had  been 
thrice  tried  for  murder. 

Not  only  to  every  one  was  he  a  stranger,  but 
to  him  everything  was  strange;  so  strange  as 
to  appear  unreal.  This  did  not  prevent  him 
from  at  once  recognizing  those  things  that  were 
not  strange,  such  as  corrupt  officials,  incompe 
tence,  mismanagement.  He  did  not  need  the 
missionaries  to  point  out  to  him  that  the  Inde 
pendent  State  of  the  Congo  was  not  a  colony 
administered  for  the  benefit  of  many,  but  a 
vast  rubber  plantation  worked  by  slaves  to  fill 
the  pockets  of  one  man.  It  was  not  in  his  work 
that  Everett  found  himself  confused.  It  was 
in  his  attitude  of  mind  toward  almost  every 
other  question. 

66 


A  QUESTION  OF  LATITUDE 

At  first,  when  he  could  not  make  everything 
fit  his  rule  of  thumb,  he  excused  the  country 
tolerantly  as  a  "topsy-turvy"  land.  He  wished 
to  move  and  act  quickly;  to  make  others  move 
quickly.  He  did  not  understand  that  men  who 
had  sentenced  themselves  to  exile  for  the  official 
term  of  three  years,  or  for  life,  measured  time 
only  by  the  date  of  their  release.  When  he 
learned  that  even  a  cablegram  could  not  reach 
his  home  in  less  than  eighteen  days,  that  the 
missionaries  to  whom  he  brought  letters  were  a 
three-months'  journey  from  the  coast  and  from 
each  other,  his  impatience  was  chastened  to 
wonder,  and,  later,  to  awe. 

His  education  began  at  Matadi,  where  he 
waited  until  the  river  steamer  was  ready  to 
start  for  Leopoldville.  Of  the  two  places  he 
was  assured  Matadi  was  the  better,  for  the 
reason  that  if  you  still  were  in  favor  with  the 
steward  of  the  ship  that  brought  you  south, 
he  might  sell  you  a  piece  of  ice. 

Matadi  was  a  great  rock,  blazing  with  heat. 
Its  narrow,  perpendicular  paths  seemed  to  run 
with  burning  lava.  Its  top,  the  main  square  of 
the  settlement,  was  of  baked  clay,  beaten  hard 
by  thousands  of  naked  feet.  Crossing  it  by 
day  was  an  adventure.  The  air  that  swept  it 
was  the  breath  of  a  blast-furnace. 

Everett  found  a  room  over  the  shop  of  a 


A  QUESTION  OF  LATITUDE 

Portuguese  trader.  It  was  caked  with  dirt,, 
and  smelled  of  unnamed  diseases  and  chloride 
of  lime.  In  it  was  a  canvas  cot,  a  roll  of  evil- 
looking  bedding,  a  wash-basin  filled  with  the 
stumps  of  cigarettes.  In  a  corner  was  a  tin 
chop-box,  which  Everett  asked  to  have  removed. 
It  belonged,  the  landlord  told  him,  to  the  man 
who,  two  nights  before,  had  occupied  the  cot 
and  who  had  died  in  it.  Everett  was  anxious 
to  learn  of  what  he  had  died.  Apparently  sur 
prised  at  the  question,  the  Portuguese  shrugged 
his  shoulders. 

"Who  knows?"  he  exclaimed.  The  next 
morning  the  English  trader  across  the  street 
assured  Everett  there  was  no  occasion  for 
alarm.  "He  didn't  die  of  any  disease,"  he 
explained.  "Somebody  got  at  him  from  the 
balcony,  while  he  was  in  his  cot,  and  knifed 
him." 

The  English  trader  was  a  young  man,  a  cock 
ney,  named  Upsher.  At  home  he  had  been  a 
steward  on  the  Channel  steamers.  Everett 
made  him  his  most  intimate  friend.  He  had  a 
black  wife,  who  spent  most  of  her  day  in  a 
four-post  bed,  hung  with  lace  curtains  and 
blue  ribbons,  in  which  she  resembled  a  baby 
hippopotamus  wallowing  in  a  bank  of  white 
sand. 

At  first  the  black  woman  was  a  shock  to 
68 


A  QUESTION  OF  LATITUDE 

Everett,  but  after  Upsher  dismissed  her  indif 
ferently  as  a  "good  old  sort,"  and  spent  one 
evening  blubbering  over  a  photograph  of  his 
wife  and  "kiddy"  at  home,  Everett  accepted 
her.  His  excuse  for  this  was  that  men  who 
knew  they  might  die  on  the  morrow  must  not 
be  judged  by  what  they  do  to-day.  The  ex 
cuse  did  not  ring  sound,  but  he  dismissed  the 
doubt  by  deciding  that  in  such  heat  it  was  not 
possible  to  take  serious  questions  seriously.  In 
the  fact  that,  to  those  about  him,  the  thought 
of  death  was  ever  present,  he  found  further  ex 
cuse  for  much  else  that  puzzled  and  shocked 
him.  At  home,  death  had  been  a  contingency 
so  remote  that  he  had  put  it  aside  as  something 
he  need  not  consider  until  he  was  a  grandfather. 
At  Matadi,  at  every  moment  of  the  day,  in 
each  trifling  act,  he  found  death  must  be  faced, 
conciliated,  conquered.  At  home  he  might  ask 
himself,  "If  I  eat  this  will  it  give  me  indiges 
tion?"  At  Matadi  he  asked,  "If  I  drink  this 
will  I  die?" 

Upsher  told  him  of  a  feud  then  existing  be 
tween  the  chief  of  police  and  an  Italian  doctor 
in  the  State  service.  Interested  in  the  outcome 
only  as  a  sporting  proposition,  Upsher  declared 
the  odds  were  unfair,  because  the  Belgian  was 
using  his  black  police  to  act  as  his  body-guard 
while  for  protection  the  Italian  could  depend 

69 


A  QUESTION  OF  LATITUDE 

only  upon  his  sword-cane.  Each  night,  with 
the  other  white  exiles  of  Matadi,  the  two  adver 
saries  met  in  the  Cafe  Franco-Beige.  There, 
with  puzzled  interest,  Everett  watched  them 
sitting  at  separate  tables,  surrounded  by  mu 
tual  friends,  excitedly  playing  dominoes.  Out 
side  the  cafe,  Matadi  lay  smothered  and  swel 
tering  in  a  black,  living  darkness,  and,  save  for 
the  rush  of  the  river,  in  a  silence  that  continued 
unbroken  across  a  jungle  as  wide  as  Europe. 
Inside  the  dominoes  clicked,  the  glasses  rang 
on  the  iron  tables,  the  oil  lamps  glared  upon 
the  pallid,  sweating  faces  of  clerks,  upon  the 
tanned,  sweating  skins  of  officers;  and  the 
Italian  doctor  and  the  Belgian  lieutenant,  each 
with  murder  in  his  heart,  laughed,  shrugged, 
gesticulated,  waiting  for  the  moment  to  strike. 

"But  why  doesn't  some  one  do  something?" 
demanded  Everett.  "Arrest  them,  or  reason 
with  them.  Everybody  knows  about  it.  It 
seems  a  pity  not  to  do  something." 

Upsher  nodded  his  head.  Dimly  he  recog 
nized  a  language  with  which  he  once  had  been 
familiar.  "I  know  what  you  mean,"  he  agreed. 
"Bind  'em  over  to  keep  the  peace.  And  a 
good  job,  too!  But  wiio?"  he  demanded 
vaguely.  "That's  what  I  say !  Who?"  From 
the  confusion  into  which  Everett's  appeal  to 
forgotten  memories  had  thrown  it,  his  mind 

70 


A  QUESTION  OF  LATITUDE 

suddenly  emerged.  "But  what's  the  use!"  he 
demanded.  "Don't  you  see,"  he  explained 
triumphantly,  "if  those  two  crazy  men  were 
fit  to  listen  to  sense,  they'd  have  sense  enough 
not  to  kill  each  other!" 

Each  succeeding  evening  Everett  watched  the 
two  potential  murderers  with  lessening  interest. 
He  even  made  a  bet  with  Upsher,  of  a  bottle  of 
fruit  salt,  that  the  chief  of  police  would  be  the 
one  to  die. 

A  few  nights  later  a  man,  groaning  beneath 
his  balcony,  disturbed  his  slumbers.  He  cursed 
the  man,  and  turned  his  pillow  to  find  the 
cooler  side.  But  all  through  the  night  the 
groans,  though  fainter,  broke  into  his  dreams. 
At  intervals  some  traditions  of  past  conduct 
tugged  at  Everett's  sleeve,  and  bade  him  rise 
and  play  the  good  Samaritan.  But,  indignantly, 
he  repulsed  them.  Were  there  not  many  others 
within  hearing?  Were  there  not  the  police? 
Was  it  his  place  to  bind  the  wounds  of  drunken 
stokers?  The  groans  were  probably  a  trick,  to 
entice  him,  unarmed,  into  the  night.  And  so, 
just  before  the  dawn,  when  the  mists  rose,  and 
the  groans  ceased,  Everett,  still  arguing,  sank 
with  a  contented  sigh  into  forgetfulness. 

When  he  woke,  there  was  beneath  his  window 
much  monkey-like  chattering,  and  he  looked 
down  into  the  white  face  and  glazed  eyes  of  the 

71 


A  QUESTION  OF  LATITUDE 

Italian  doctor,  lying  in  the  gutter  and  staring 
up  at  him.  Below  his  shoulder-blades  a  pool 
of  blood  shone  evilly  in  the  blatant  sunlight. 

Across  the  street,  on  his  balcony,  Upsher,  in 
pajamas  and  mosquito  boots,  was  shivering  with 
fever  and  stifling  a  yawn.  "You  lose!"  he 
called. 

Later  in  the  day,  Everett  analyzed  his  con 
duct  of  the  night  previous.  "At  home,"  he 
told  Upsher,  "I  would  have  been  telephoning 
for  an  ambulance,  or  been  out  in  the  street  giv 
ing  the  man  the  'first-aid'  drill.  But  living  as 
we  do  here,  so  close  to  death,  we  see  things 
more  clearly.  Death  loses  its  importance.  It's 
a  bromide,"  he  added.  "But  travel  certainly 
broadens  one.  Every  day  I  have  been  in  the 
Congo,  I  have  been  assimilating  new  ideas." 
Upsher  nodded  vigorously  in  assent.  An  older 
man  could  have  told  Everett  that  he  was  assim 
ilating  just  as  much  of  the  Congo  as  the  rabbit 
assimilates  of  the  boa-constrictor,  that  first 
smothers  it  with  saliva  and  then  swallows  it. 

Everett  started  up  the  Congo  in  a  small 
steamer  open  on  all  sides  to  the  sun  and  rain, 
and  with  a  paddle-wheel  astern  that  kicked  her 
forward  at  the  rate  of  four  miles  an  hour.  Once 
every  day,  the  boat  tied  up  to  a  tree  and  took 
on  wood  to  feed  her  furnace,  and  Everett  talked 
to  the  white  man  in  charge  of  the  wood  post,  or, 

72 


A  QUESTION  OF  LATITUDE 

if,  as  it  generally  happened,  the  white  man  was 
on  his  back  with  fever,  dosed  him  with  quinine. 
On  board,  except  for  her  captain,  and  a  Finn 
who  acted  as  engineer,  Everett  was  the  only 
other  white  man.  The  black  crew  and  "  wood- 
boys"  he  soon  disliked  intensely.  At  first, 
when  Nansen,  the  Danish  captain,  and  the  Finn 
struck  them,  because  they  were  in  the  way,  or 
because  they  were  not,  Everett  winced,  and 
made  a  note  of  it.  But  later  he  decided  the 
blacks  were  insolent,  sullen,  ungrateful;  that  a 
blow  did  them  no  harm. 

According  to  the  unprejudiced  testimony  of 
those  who,  before  the  war,  in  his  own  country, 
had  owned  slaves,  those  of  the  "Southland" 
were  always  content,  always  happy.  When  not 
singing  close  harmony  in  the  cotton-fields,  they 
danced  upon  the  levee,  they  twanged  the  old 
banjo.  But  these  slaves  of  the  Upper  Congo 
were  not  happy.  They  did  not  dance.  They 
did  not  sing.  At  times  their  eyes,  dull,  gloomy, 
despairing,  lighted  with  a  sudden  sombre  fire, 
and  searched  the  eyes  of  the  white  man.  They 
seemed  to  beg  of  him  the  answer  to  a  terrible 
question.  It  was  always  the  same  question.  It 
had  been  asked  of  Pharaoh.  They  asked  it  of 
Leopold.  For  hours,  squatting  on  the  iron  deck- 
plates,  humped  on  their  naked  haunches,  crowd 
ing  close  together,  they  muttered  apparently 

73 


A  QUESTION  OF  LATITUDE 

interminable  criticisms  of  Everett.  Their  eyes 
never  left  him.  He  resented  this  unceasing 
scrutiny.  It  got  upon  his  nerves.  He  was  sure 
they  were  evolving  some  scheme  to  rob  him  of 
his  tinned  sausages,  or,  possibly,  to  kill  him. 
It  was  then  he  began  to  dislike  them.  In  re 
ality,  they  were  discussing  the  watch  strapped  to 
his  wrist.  They  believed  it  was  a  powerful  juju, 
to  ward  off  evil  spirits.  They  were  afraid  of  it. 

One  day,  to  pay  the  chief  wood-boy  for  a 
carved  paddle,  Everett  was  measuring  a  bras 
of  cloth.  As  he  had  been  taught,  he  held  the 
cloth  in  his  teeth  and  stretched  it  to  the  ends 
of  his  finger-tips.  The  wood-boy  thought  the 
white  man  was  giving  him  short  measure. 
White  men  always  had  given  him  short  measure, 
and,  at  a  glance,  he  could  not  recognize  that 
this  one  was  an  Everett  of  Boston. 

So  he  opened  Everett's  fingers. 

All  the  blood  in  Everett's  body  leaped  to  his 
head.  That  he,  a  white  man,  an  Everett,  who 
had  come  so  far  to  set  these  people  free,  should 
be  accused  by  one  of  them  of  petty  theft ! 

He  caught  up  a  log  of  fire  wood  and  laid  open 
the  scalp  of  the  black  boy,  from  the  eye  to  the 
crown  of  his  head.  The  boy  dropped,  and  Ev 
erett,  seeing  the  blood  creeping  through  his 
kinky  wool,  turned  ill  with  nausea.  Drunk- 
enly,  through  a  red  cloud  of  mist,  he  heard  him- 

74 


A  QUESTION  OF  LATITUDE 

self  shouting,  "The  black  nigger!  The  black 
nigger!  He  touched  me !  I  tell  you,  he  touched 
me!"  Captain  Nansen  led  Everett  to  his  cot 
and  gave  him  fizzy  salts,  but  it  was  not  until 
sundown  that  the  trembling  and  nausea  ceased. 

Then,  partly  in  shame,  partly  as  a  bribe,  he 
sought  out  the  injured  boy  and  gave  him  the 
entire  roll  of  cloth.  It  had  cost  Everett  ten 
francs.  To  the  wood-boy  it  meant  a  year's 
wages.  The  boy  hugged  it  in  his  arms,  as  he 
might  a  baby,  and  crooned  over  it.  From  under 
the  blood-stained  bandage,  humbly,  without 
resentment,  he  lifted  his  tired  eyes  to  those  of 
the  white  man.  Still,  dumbly,  they  begged  the 
answer  to  the  same  question. 

During  the  five  months  Everett  spent  up  the 
river  he  stopped  at  many  missions,  stations, 
one-man  wood  posts.  He  talked  to  Jesuit 
fathers,  to  inspecteurs,  to  collectors  for  the  State 
of  rubber,  taxes,  elephant  tusks,  in  time,  even 
in  Bengalese,  to  chiefs  of  the  native  villages. 
According  to  the  point  of  view,  he  was  told 
tales  of  oppression,  of  avarice,  of  hideous  crimes, 
of  cruelties  committed  in  the  name  of  trade  that 
were  abnormal,  unthinkable.  The  note  never 
was  of  hope,  never  of  cheer,  never  inspiring. 
There  was  always  the  grievance,  the  spirit  of 
unrest,  of  rebellion  that  ranged  from  dislike  to 
a  primitive,  hot  hate.  Of  his  own  land  and 

75 


A  QUESTION  OF  LATITUDE 

life  he  heard  nothing,  not  even  when  his  face 
was  again  turned  toward  the  east.  Nor  did  he 
think  of  it.  As  now  he  saw  them,  the  rules 
and  principles  and  standards  of  his  former 
existence  were  petty  and  credulous.  But  he 
assured  himself  he  had  not  abandoned  those 
standards.  He  had  only  temporarily  laid  them 
aside,  as  he  had  left  behind  him  in  London  his 
frock-coat  and  silk  hat.  Not  because  he  would 
not  use  them  again,  but  because  in  the  Congo 
they  were  ridiculous. 

For  weeks,  with  a  missionary  as  a  guide,  he 
walked  through  forests  into  which  the  sun 
never  penetrated,  or,  on  the  river,  moved  be 
tween  banks  where  no  white  man  had  placed 
his  foot;  where,  at  night,  the  elephants  came 
trooping  to  the  water,  and,  seeing  the  lights 
of  the  boat,  fled  crashing  through  the  jungle; 
where  the  great  hippos,  puffing  and  blowing, 
rose  so  close  to  his  elbow  that  he  could  have 
tossed  his  cigarette  and  hit  them.  The  vast- 
ness  of  the  Congo,  toward  which  he  had  so 
jauntily  set  forth,  now  weighed  upon  his  soul. 
The  immeasurable  distances;  the  slumbering 
disregard  of  time;  the  brooding,  interminable 
silences;  the  efforts  to  conquer  the  land  that 
were  so  futile,  so  puny,  and  so  cruel,  at  first 
appalled  and,  later,  left  him  unnerved,  rebel 
lious,  childishly  defiant. 

76 


A  QUESTION  OF  LATITUDE 

What  health  was  there,  he  demanded  hotly, 
in  holding  in  a  dripping  jungle  to  morals,  to 
etiquette,  to  fashions  of  conduct?  Was  he,  the 
white  man,  intelligent,  trained,  disciplined  in 
mind  and  body,  to  be  judged  by  naked  canni 
bals,  by  chattering  monkeys,  by  mammoth 
primeval  beasts?  His  code  of  conduct  was  his 
own.  He  was  a  law  unto  himself. 

He  came  down  the  river  on  one  of  the  larger 
steamers  of  the  State,  and,  on  this  voyage,  with 
many  fellow-passengers.  He  was  now  on  his 
way  home,  but  in  the  fact  he  felt  no  elation. 
Each  day  the  fever  ran  tingling  through  his 
veins,  and  left  him  listless,  frightened,  or  chol 
eric.  One  night  at  dinner,  in  one  of  these 
moods  of  irritation,  he  took  offense  at  the  act 
of  a  lieutenant  who,  in  lack  of  vegetables,  drank 
from  the  vinegar  bottle.  Everett  protested  that 
such  table  manners  were  unbecoming  an  officer, 
even  an  officer  of  the  Congo;  and  on  the  lieu 
tenant  resenting  his  criticism,  Everett  drew 
his  revolver.  The  others  at  the  table  took  it 
from  him,  and  locked  him  in  his  cabin.  In  the 
morning,  when  he  tried  to  recall  what  had 
occurred,  he  could  remember  only  that,  for 
some  excellent  reason,  he  had  hated  some  one 
with  a  hatred  that  could  be  served  only  with 
death.  He  knew  it  could  not  have  been  drink, 
as  each  day  the  State  allowed  him  *  but  one 

77 


A  QUESTION  OF  LATITUDE 

half-bottle  of  claret.  That  but  for  the  interfer 
ence  of  strangers  he  might  have  shot  a  man, 
did  not  interest  him.  In  the  outcome  of  what 
he  regarded  merely  as  an  incident,  he  saw 
cause  neither  for  congratulation  or  self-reproach. 
For  his  conduct  he  laid  the  blame  upon  the  sun, 
and  doubled  his  dose  of  fruit  salts. 

Everett  was  again  at  Matadi,  waiting  for  the 
Nigeria  to  take  on  cargo  before  returning  to 
Liverpool.  During  the  few  days  that  must 
intervene  before  she  sailed,  he  lived  on  board. 
Although  now  actually  bound  north,  the  thought 
afforded  him  no  satisfaction.  His  spirits  were 
depressed,  his  mind  gloomy;  a  feeling  of  rebel 
lion,  of  outlawry,  filled  him  with  unrest. 

While  the  ship  lay  at  the  wharf,  Hardy,  her 
English  captain,  Cuthbert,  the  purser,  and 
Everett  ate  on  deck  under  the  awning,  assailed 
by  electric  fans.  Each  was  clad  in  nothing 
more  intricate  than  pajamas. 

"To-night,"  announced  Hardy,  with  a  sigh, 
"we  got  to  dress  ship.  Mr.  Ducret  and  his  wife 
are  coming  on  board.  We  carry  his  trade 
goods,  and  I  got  to  stand  him  a  dinner  and 
champagne.  You  boys,"  he  commanded,  "must 
wear  'whites/  and  talk  French," 

"I'll  dine  on  shore,"  growled  Everett. 

"Better  meet  them,"  advised  Cuthbert.  The 
purser  was  a  pink-cheeked,  clear-eyed  young 

78 


A  QUESTION  OF  LATITUDE 

man,  who  spoke  the  many  languages  of  the 
coast  glibly,  and  his  own  in  the  soft,  detached 
voice  of  a  well-bred  Englishman.  He  was  in 
training  to  enter  the  consular  service.  Some 
thing  in  his  poise,  in  the  assured  manner  in 
which  he  handled  his  white  stewards  and  the 
black  Kroo  boys,  seemed  to  Everett  a  constant 
reproach,  and  he  resented  him. 

"They're  a  picturesque  couple,"  explained 
Cuthbert.  "Ducret  was  originally  a  wrestler. 
Used  to  challenge  all  comers  from  the  front  of 
a  booth.  He  served  his  time  in  the  army  in 
Senegal,  and  when  he  was  mustered  out  moved 
to  the  French  Congo  and  began  to  trade,  in  a 
small  way,  in  ivory.  Now  he's  the  biggest 
merchant,  physically  and  every  other  way, 
from  Stanley  Pool  to  Lake  Chad.  He  has  a 
house  at  Brazzaville  built  of  mahogany,  and  a 
grand  piano,  and  his  own  ice-plant.  His  wife 
was  a  supper-girl  at  Maxim's.  He  brought  her 
down  here  and  married  her.  Every  rainy  sea 
son  they  go  back  to  Paris  and  run  race-horses, 
and  they  say  the  best  table  in  every  all-night 
restaurant  is  reserved  for  him.  In  Paris  they 
call  her  the  Ivory  Queen.  She's  killed  seven 
teen  elephants  with  her  own  rifle." 

In  the  Upper  Congo,  Everett  had  seen  four 
white  women.  They  were  pallid,  washed-out, 
bloodless;  even  the  youngest  looked  past ' middle- 

79 


A  QUESTION  OF  LATITUDE 

age.  For  him  women  of  any  other  type  had 
ceased  to  exist.  He  had  come  to  think  of  every 
white  woman  as  past  middle-age,  with  a  face 
wrinkled  by  the  sun,  with  hair  bleached  white 
by  the  sun,  with  eyes  from  which,  through 
gazing  at  the  sun,  all  light  and  lustre  had 
departed.  He  thought  of  them  as  always 
wearing  boots  to  protect  their  ankles  from 
mosquitoes,  and  army  helmets. 

When  he  came  on  deck  for  dinner,  he  saw  a 
woman  who  looked  as  though  she  was  posing 
for  a  photograph  by  Reutlinger.  She  appeared 
to  have  stepped  to  the  deck  directly  from  her 
electric  victoria,  and  the  Rue  de  la  Paix.  She 
was  tall,  lithe,  gracefully  erect,  with  eyes  of 
great  loveliness,  and  her  hair  brilliantly  black, 
drawn,  d  la  Merode,  across  a  broad,  fair  fore 
head.  She  wore  a  gown  and  long  coat  of  white 
lace,  as  delicate  as  a  bridal  veil,  and  a  hat  with 
a  flapping  brim  from  which,  in  a  curtain,  hung 
more  lace.  When  she  was  pleased,  she  lifted 
her  head  and  the  curtain  rose,  unmasking  her 
lovely  eyes.  Around  the  white,  bare  throat 
was  a  string  of  pearls.  They  had  cost  the  lives 
of  many  elephants. 

Cuthbert,  only  a  month  from  home,  saw 
Madame  Ducret  just  as  she  was — a  Parisienne, 
elegant,  smart,  soigne.  He  knew  that  on  any 
night  at  Madrid  or  d'Armenonville  he  might 

80 


A  QUESTION  OF   LATITUDE 

look  upon  twenty  women  of  the  same  charming 
type.  They  might  lack  that  something  this 
girl  from  Maxim's  possessed — the  spirit  that 
had  caused  her  to  follow  her  husband  into  the 
depths  of  darkness.  But  outwardly,  for  show 
purposes,  they  were  even  as  she. 

But  to  Everett  she  was  no  messenger  from 
another  world.  She  was  unique.  To  his  fam 
ished  eyes,  starved  senses,  and  fever-driven 
brain,  she  was  her  entire  sex  personified.  She 
was  the  one  woman  for  whom  he  had  always 
sought,  alluring,  soothing,  maddening;  if  need 
be,  to  be  fought  for;  the  one  thing  to  be  desired. 
Opposite,  across  the  table,  her  husband,  the 
ex-wrestler,  chasseur  d'A/rique,  elephant  poacher, 
bulked  large  as  an  ox.  Men  felt  as  well 
as  saw  his  bigness.  Captain  Hardy  deferred 
to  him  on  matters  of  trade.  The  purser  de 
ferred  to  him  on  questions  of  administration. 
He  answered  them  in  his  big  way,  with  big 
thoughts,  in  big  figures.  He  was  fifty  years 
ahead  of  his  time.  He  beheld  the  Congo  open 
to  the  world;  in  the  forests  where  he  had  hunted 
elephants  he  foresaw  great  "factories,"  mining 
camps,  railroads,  feeding  gold  and  copper  ore 
to  the  trunk  line,  from  the  Cape  to  Cairo. 
His  ideas  were  the  ideas  of  an  empire-builder. 
But,  while  the  others  listened,  fascinated,  hypno 
tized,  Everett  saw  only  the  woman,  her  eyes 

81 


A  QUESTION  OF  LATITUDE 

fixed  on  her  husband,  her  fingers  turning  and 
twisting  her  diamond  rings.  Every  now  and 
again  she  raised  her  eyes  to  Everett  almost 
reproachfully,  as  though  to  say,  "Why  do  you 
not  listen  to  him?  It  is  much  better  for  you 
than  to  look  at  me." 

When  they  had  gone,  all  through  the  sultry 
night,  until  the  sun  drove  him  to  his  cabin,  like 
a  caged  animal  Everett  paced  and  repaced  the 
deck.  The  woman  possessed  his  mind  and  he 
could  not  drive  her  out.  He  did  not  wish  to 
drive  her  out.  What  the  consequences  might 
be  he  did  not  care.  So  long  as  he  might  see  her 
again,  he  jeered  at  the  consequences.  Of  one 
thing  he  was  positive.  He  could  not  now  leave 
the  Congo.  He  would  follow  her  to  Brazza 
ville.  If  he  were  discreet,  Ducret  might  invite 
him  to  make  himself  their  guest.  Once  estab 
lished  in  her  home,  she  must  listen  to  him. 
No  man  ever  before  had  felt  for  any  woman  the 
need  he  felt  for  her.  It  was  too  big  for  him  to 
conquer.  It  would  be  too  big  for  her  to  resist. 

In  the  morning  a  note  from  Ducret  invited 
Everett  and  Cuthbert  to  join  him  in  an  all-day 
excursion  to  the  water-fall  beyond  Matadi. 
Everett  answered  the  note  in  person.  The 
thought  of  seeing  the  woman  calmed  and 
steadied  him  like  a  dose  of  morphine.  So  much 
more  violent  than  the  fever  in  his  veins  was  the 

82 


A  QUESTION  OF  LATITUDE 

fever  in  his  brain  that,  when  again  he  was  with 
her,  he  laughed  happily,  and  was  grandly  at 
peace.  So  different  was  he  from  the  man  they 
had  met  the  night  before,  that  the  Frenchman 
and  his  wife  glanced  at  each  other  in  surprise 
and  approval.  They  found  him  witty,  eager,  a 
most  charming  companion;  and  when  he  an 
nounced  his  intention  of  visiting  Brazzaville, 
they  insisted  he  should  make  their  home  his 
own. 

His  admiration,  as  outwardly  it  appeared  to 
be,  for  Madame  Ducret,  was  evident  to  the 
others,  but  her  husband  accepted  it.  It  was 
her  due.  And,  on  the  Congo,  to  grudge  to 
another  man  the  sight  of  a  pretty  woman  was 
as  cruel  as  to  withhold  the  few  grains  of  quinine 
that  might  save  his  reason.  But  before  the  day 
passed,  Madame  Ducret  was  aware  that  the 
American  could  not  be  lightly  dismissed  as  an 
admirer.  The  fact  neither  flattered  nor  of 
fended.  For  her  it  was  no  novel  or  disturbing 
experience.  Other  men,  whipped  on  by  lone 
liness,  by  fever,  by  primitive  savage  instincts, 
had  told  her  what  she  meant  to  them.  She  did 
not  hold  them  responsible.  Some,  worth  curing, 
she  had  nursed  through  the  illness.  Others, 
who  refused  to  be  cured,  she  had  turned  over, 
with  a  shrug,  to  her  husband.  This  one  was 
more  difficult.  Of  men  of  Everett's  traditions 

83 


A  QUESTION  OF  LATITUDE 

and  education  she  had  known  but  few;  but  she 
recognized  the  type.  This  young  man  was  no 
failure  in  life,  no  derelict,  no  outcast  flying  the 
law,  or  a  scandal,  to  hide  in  the  jungle.  He 
was  what,  in  her  Maxim  days,  she  had  laughed 
at  as  an  aristocrat.  He  knew  her  Paris  as  she 
did  not  know  it :  its  history,  its  art.  Even  her 
language  he  spoke  more  correctly  than  her 
husband  or  herself.  She  knew  that  at  his  home 
there  must  be  many  women  infinitely  more 
attractive,  more  suited  to  him,  than  herself: 
women  of  birth,  of  position;  young  girls  and 
great  ladies  of  the  other  world.  And  she  knew, 
also,  that,  in  his  present  state,  at  a  nod  from 
her  he  would  cast  these  behind  him  and  carry 
her  into  the  wilderness.  More  quickly  than 
she  anticipated,  Everett  proved  she  did  not 
overrate  the  forces  that  compelled  him. 

The  excursion  to  the  rapids  was  followed  by  a 
second  dinner  on  board  the  Nigeria.  But  now, 
as  on  the  previous  night,  Everett  fell  into  sullen 
silence.  He  ate  nothing,  drank  continually,  and 
with  his  eyes  devoured  the  woman.  When  coffee 
had  been  served,  he  left  the  others  at  table,  and 
with  Madame  Ducret  slowly  paced  the  deck. 
As  they  passed  out  of  the  reach  of  the  lights,  he 
drew  her  to  the  rail,  and  stood  in  front  of  her. 

"I  am  not  quite  mad,"  he  said,  "but  you 
have  got  to  come  with  me." 


A  QUESTION  OF  LATITUDE 

To  Everett  all  he  added  to  this  sounded  sane 
and  final.  He  told  her  that  this  was  one  of 
those  miracles  when  the  one  woman  and  the 
one  man  who  were  predestined  to  meet  had 
met.  He  told  her  he  had  wished  to  marry  a 
girl  at  home,  but  that  he  now  saw  that  the 
desire  was  the  fancy  of  a  school-boy.  He  told 
her  he  was  rich,  and  offered  her  the  choice  of 
returning  to  the  Paris  she  loved,  or  of  going 
deeper  into  the  jungle.  There  he  would  set  up 
for  her  a  principality,  a  state  within  the  State. 
He  would  defend  her  against  all  comers.  He 
would  make  her  the  Queen  of  the  Congo. 

"I  have  waited  for  you  thousands  of  years  !'* 
he  told  her.  His  voice  was  hoarse,  shaken,  and 
thick.  "  I  love  you  as  men  loved  women  in  the 
Stone  Age — fiercely,  entirely.  I  will  not  be 
denied.  Down  here  we  are  cave  people,  if  you 
fight  me,  I  will  club  you  and  drag  you  to  my 
cave.  If  others  fight  for  you,  I  will  kill  them. 
I  love  you,"  he  panted,  "with  all  my  soul,  my 
mind,  my  body,  I  love  you !  I  will  not  let  you 
go!" 

Madame  Ducret  did  not  say  she  was  insulted, 
because  she  did  not  feel  insulted.  She  did  not 
call  to  her  husband  for  help,  because  she  did 
not  need  his  help,  and  because  she  knew  that 
the  ex-wrestler  could  break  Everett  across  his 
knee.  She  did  not  even  withdraw  her  hands, 

85 


A  QUESTION  OF  LATITUDE 

although  Everett  drove  the  diamonds  deep  into 
her  fingers. 

"You  frighten  me!"  she  pleaded.  She  was 
not  in  the  least  frightened.  She  only  was  sorry 
that  this  one  must  be  discarded  among  the 
incurables. 

In  apparent  agitation,  she  whispered,  "To 
morrow  !  To-morrow  I  will  give  you  your 


answer." 


Everett  did  not  trust  her,  did  not  release  her. 
He  regarded  her  jealously,  with  quick  suspicion. 
To  warn  her  that  he  knew  she  could  not  escape 
from  Matadi,  or  from  him,  he  said,  "The  train 
to  Leopold ville  does  not  leave  for  two  days!" 

"I  know!"  whispered  Madame  Ducret  sooth 
ingly.  "I  will  give  you  your  answer  to-morrow 
at  ten."  She  emphasized  the  hour,  because  she 
knew  at  sunrise  a  special  train  would  carry  her 
husband  and  herself  to  Leopoldville,  and  that 
there  one  of  her  husband's  steamers  would  bear 
them  across  the  Pool  to  French  Congo. 

"  To-morrow,  then!"  whispered  Everett, 
grudgingly.  "But  I  must  kiss  you  now!" 

Only  an  instant  did  Madame  Ducret  hesitate. 
Then  she  turned  her  cheek.  "Yes,"  she  as 
sented.  "You  must  kiss  me  now." 

Everett  did  not  rejoin  the  others.  He  led  her 
back  into  the  circle  of  light,  and  locked  himself 
in  his  cabin. 

86 


A  QUESTION  OF  LATITUDE 

At  ten  the  next  morning,  when  Ducret  and  his 
wife  were  well  advanced  toward  Stanley  Pool, 
Cuthbert  handed  Everett  a  note.  Having  been 
told  what  it  contained,  he  did  not  move  away, 
but,  with  his  back  turned,  leaned  upon  the  rail. 

Everett,  his  eyes  on  fire  with  triumph,  his 
fingers  trembling,  tore  open  the  envelope. 

Madame  Ducret  wrote  that  her  husband  and 
herself  felt  that  Mr.  Everett  was  suffering  more 
severely  from  the  climate  than  he  knew.  With 
regret  they  cancelled  their  invitation  to  visit 
them,  and  urged  him,  for  his  health's  sake,  to 
continue  as  he  had  planned,  to  northern  lati 
tudes.  They  hoped  to  meet  in  Paris.  They 
extended  assurances  of  their  distinguished  con 
sideration. 

Slowly,  savagely,  as  though  wreaking  his 
suffering  on  some  human  thing,  Everett  tore  the 
note  into  minute  fragments.  Moving  unsteadily 
to  the  ship's  side,  he  flung  them  into  the  river, 
and  then  hung  limply  upon  the  rail. 

Above  him,  from  a  sky  of  brass,  the  sun 
stabbed  at  his  eyeballs.  Below  him,  the  rush 
of  the  Congo,  churning  in  muddy  whirlpools, 
echoed  against  the  hills  of  naked  rock  that  met 
the  naked  sky. 

To  Everett,  the  roar  of  the  great  river,  and  the 
echoes  from  the  land  he  had  set  out  to  reform, 
carried  the  sound  of  gigantic,  hideous  laughter. 


THE  SPY 

MY  going  to  Valencia  was  entirely  an  accident. 
But  the  more  often  I  stated  that  fact,  the  more 
satisfied  was  every  one  at  the  capital  that  I 
had  come  on  some  secret  mission.  Even  the 
venerable  politician  who  acted  as  our  minister, 
the  night  of  my  arrival,  after  dinner,  said  con 
fidentially,  "Now,  Mr.  Crosby,  between  our 
selves,  what's  the  game?" 

"What's  what  game?"  I  asked. 

''You  know  what  I  mean,"  he  returned. 
"What  are  you  here  for?" 

But  when,  for  the  tenth  time,  I  repeated  how 
I  came  to  be  marooned  in  Valencia  he  showed 
that  his  feelings  were  hurt,  and  said  stifHy: 
"As  you  please.  Suppose  we  join  the  ladies." 

And  the  next  day  his  wife  reproached  me  with : 
"I  should  think  you  could  trust  your  own 
minister.  My  husband  never  talks — not  even 
to  me." 

"So  I  see,"  I  said. 

And  then  her  feelings  were  hurt  also,  and  she 
went  about  telling  people  I  was  an  agent  of  the 
Walker-Keefe  crowd. 

My  only  reason  for  repeating  here  that  my 

88 


THE  SPY 

going  to  Valencia  was  an  accident  is  that  it  was 
because  Schnitzel  disbelieved  that  fact,  and  to 
drag  the  hideous  facts  from  me  followed  me 
back  to  New  York.  Through  that  circumstance 
I  came  to  know  him,  and  am  able  to  tell  this 
story. 

The  simple  truth  was  that  I  had  been  sent  by 
the  State  Department  to  Panama,  to  "go,  look, 
see,"  and  straighten  out  a  certain  conflict  of 
authority  among  the  officials  of  the  canal  zone. 
While  I  was  there  the  yellow-fever  broke  out, 
and  every  self-respecting  power  clapped  a  quar 
antine  on  the  Isthmus,  with  the  result  that 
when  I  tried  to  return  to  New  York  no  steamer 
would  take  me  to  any  place  to  which  any  white 
man  would  care  to  go.  But  I  knew  that  at 
Valencia  there  was  a  direct  line  to  New  York, 
so  I  took  a  tramp  steamer  down  the  coast  to 
Valencia.  I  went  to  Valencia  only  because  to 
me  every  other  port  in  the  world  was  closed. 
My  position  was  that  of  the  man  who  explained 
to  his  wife  that  he  came  home  because  the 
other  places  were  shut. 

But,  because,  formerly  in  Valencia  I  had  held 
a  minor  post  in  our  legation,  and  because  the 
State  Department  so  constantly  consults  our 
firm  on  questions  of  international  law,  it  was 
believed  I  revisited  Valencia  on  some  mysterious 
and  secret  mission. 


THE  SPY 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  had  I  gone  there  to  sell 
phonographs  or  to  start  a  steam  laundry,  I 
should  have  been  as  greatly  suspected.  For  in 
Valencia  even  every  commercial  salesman,  from 
the  moment  he  gives  up  his  passport  on  the 
steamer  until  the  police  permit  him  to  depart, 
is  suspected,  shadowed,  and  begirt  with  spies. 

I  believe  that  during  my  brief  visit  I  enjoyed 
the  distinction  of  occupying  the  undivided  atten 
tion  of  three:  a  common  or  garden  Government 
spy,  from  whom  no  guilty  man  escapes,  a  Wal 
ker-Keefe  spy,  and  the  spy  of  the  Nitrate  Com 
pany.  The  spy  of  the  Nitrate  Company  is 
generally  a  man  you  meet  at  the  legations  and 
clubs.  He  plays  bridge  and  is  dignified  with 
the  title  of  "agent."  The  Walker-Keefe  spy  is 
ostensibly  a  travelling  salesman  or  hotel  runner. 
The  Government  spy  is  just  a  spy — a  scowling, 
important  little  beast  in  a  white  duck  suit  and 
a  diamond  ring.  The  limit  of  his  intelligence  is 
to  follow  you  into  a  cigar  store  and  note  what 
cigar  you  buy,  and  in  what  kind  of  money  you 
pay  for  it. 

The  reason  for  it  all  was  the  three-cornered 
fight  which  then  was  being  waged  by  the  Govern 
ment,  the  Nitrate  Trust,  and  the  Walker-Keefe 
crowd  for  the  possession  of  the  nitrate  beds. 
Valencia  is  so  near  to  the  equator,  and  so  far 
from  New  York,  that  there  are  few  who  studied 

90 


THE  SPY 

the  intricate  story  of  that  disgraceful  struggle, 
which,  I  hasten  to  add,  with  the  fear  of  libel 
before  my  eyes,  I  do  not  intend  to  tell  now. 

Briefly,  it  was  a  triangular  fight  between  oppo 
nents  each  of  whom  was  in  the  wrong,  and  each 
of  whom,  to  gain  his  end,  bribed,  blackmailed, 
and  robbed,  not  only  his  adversaries,  but  those 
of  his  own  side,  the  end  in  view  being  the  pos 
session  of  those  great  deposits  that  lie  in  the 
rocks  of  Valencia,  baked  from  above  by  the 
tropic  sun  and  from  below  by  volcanic  fires. 
As  one  of  their  engineers,  one  night  in  the  Plaza, 
said  to  me:  " Those  mines  were  conceived  in 
hell,  and  stink  to  heaven,  and  the  reputation  of 
every  man  of  us  that  has  touched  them  smells 
like  the  mines/' 

At  the  time  I  was  there  the  situation  was 
"acute."  In  Valencia  the  situation  always  is 
acute,  but  this  time  it  looked  as  though  some 
thing  might  happen.  On  the  day  before  I 
departed  the  Nitrate  Trust  had  cabled  vehe 
mently  for  war-ships,  the  Minister  of  Foreign 
Affairs  had  refused  to  receive  our  minister,  and 
at  Porto  Banos  a  mob  had  made  the  tin  sign 
of  the  United  States  consulate  look  like  a  sieve. 
Our  minister  urged  me  to  remain.  To  be  bom 
barded  by  one's  own  war-ships,  he  assured  me, 
would  be  a  thrilling  experience.  ^ 

But  I  repeated  that  my  business  was  with 


THE  SPY 

Panama,  not  Valencia,  and  that  if  in  this  matter 
of  his  row  I  had  any  weight  at  Washington,  as 
between  preserving  the  nitrate  beds  for  the 
trust,  and  preserving  for  his  country  and  various 
sweethearts  one  brown-throated,  clean-limbed 
bluejacket,  I  was  for  the  bluejacket. 

Accordingly,  when  I  sailed  from  Valencia  the 
aged  diplomat  would  have  described  our  relations 
as  strained. 

Our  ship  was  a  slow  ship,  listed  to  touch  at 
many  ports,  and  as  early  as  noon  on  the  following 
day  we  stopped  for  cargo  at  Trujillo.  It  was 
there  I  met  Schnitzel. 

In  Panama  I  had  bought  a  macaw  for  a  little 
niece  of  mine,  and  while  we  were  taking  on  cargo 
I  went  ashore  to  get  a  tin  cage  in  which  to  put 
it,  and,  for  direction,  called  upon  our  consul. 
From  an  inner  room  he  entered  excitedly,  smiling 
at  my  card,  and  asked  how  he  might  serve  me. 
I  told  him  I  had  a  parrot  below  decks,  and 
wanted  to  buy  a  tin  cage. 

"Exactly.  You  want  a  tin  cage,"  the  consul 
repeated  soothingly.  "The  State  Department 
doesn't  keep  me  awake  nights  cabling  me  what 
it's  going  to  do,"  he  said,  "but  at  least  I  know  it 
doesn't  send  a  thousand-dollar-a-minute,  four- 
cylinder  lawyer  all  the  way  to  this  fever  swamp 
to  buy  a  tin  cage.  Now,  honest,  how  can  I 
serve  you?"  I  saw  it  was  hopeless.  No  one 

92 


THE  SPY 

would  believe  the  truth.  To  offer  it  to  this 
friendly  soul  would  merely  offend  his  feelings 
and  his  intelligence. 

So,    with    much    mystery,    I    asked    him    to 

describe  the  "situation,"  and  he  did  so  with  the 

1  exactness  of  one  who  believes  that  within  an 

hour  every  word  he  speaks  will  be  cabled  to 

the  White  House. 

When  I  was  leaving  he  said:  "Oh,  there's  a 
newspaper  correspondent  after  you.  He  wants 
an  interview,  I  guess.  He  followed  you  last 
night  from  the  capital  by  train.  You  want  to 
watch  out  he  don't  catch  you.  His  name  is 
Jones."  I  promised  to  be  on  my  guard  against 
a  man  named  Jones,  and  the  consul  escorted 
me  to  the  ship.  As  he  went  down  the  accom 
modation  ladder,  I  called  over  the  rail:  "In  case 
they  should  declare  war,  cable  to  Curagoa,  and 
I'll  come  back.  And  don't  cable  anything 
indefinite,  like  'Situation  critical'  or  'War 
imminent.'  Understand?  Cable  me,  'Come 
back'  or  'Go  ahead.'  But  whatever  you  cable, 
make  it  clear." 

He  shook  his  head  violently  and  with  his 
green-lined  umbrella  pointed  at  my  elbow.  I 
turned  and  found  a  young  man  hungrily  listening 
to  my  words.  He  was  leaning  on  the  rail  with 
his  chin  on  his  arms  and  the  brim  of  his  Panama 
hat  drawn  down  to  conceal  his  eyes. 

93 


THE  SPY 

On  the  pier-head,  from  which  we  now  were 
drawing  rapidly  away,  the  consul  made  a  mega 
phone  of  his  hands. 

"That's  him"  he  called.     "That's  Jones." 

Jones  raised  his  head,  and  I  saw  that  the  trop 
ical  heat  had  made  Jones  thirsty,  or  that  with 
friends  he  had  been  celebrating  his  departure. 
He  winked  at  me,  and,  apparently  with  pleasure 
at  his  own  discernment  and  with  pity  for  me, 
smiled. 

"Oh,  of  course!"  he  murmured.  His  tone 
was  one  of  heavy  irony.  "Make  it  'clear/ 
Make  it  clear  to  the  whole  wharf.  Shout  it  out 
so's  everybody  can  hear  you.  You're  'clear* 
enough."  His  disgust  was  too  deep  for  ordinary 
words.  "My  uncle!"  he  exclaimed. 

By  this  I  gathered  that  he  was  expressing  his 
contempt. 

"I  beg  your  pardon?"  I  said. 

We  had  the  deck  to  ourselves.  Its  emptiness 
suddenly  reminded  me  that  we  had  the  ship, 
also,  to  ourselves.  I  remembered  the  purser  had 
told  me  that,  except  for  those  who  travelled 
overnight  from  port  to  port,  I  was  his  only 
passenger. 

With  dismay  I  pictured  myself  for  ten  days 
adrift  on  the  high  seas — alone  with  Jones. 

With  a  dramatic  gesture,  as  one  would  say, 
"I  am  here!"  he  pushed  back  his  Panama  hat. 
With  an  unsteady  finger  he  pointed,  as  it  was 

94 


THE  SPY 

drawn  dripping  across  the  deck,  at  the  stern 
hawser. 

"You  see  that  rope?"  he  demanded.  "Soon 
as  that  rope  hit  the  water  I  knocked  off  work. 
S'long  as  you  was  in  Valencia — me,  on  the  job. 
Now,  you  can't  go  back,  /  can't  go  back.  Why 
further  dissim'Iation?  Who  am  I?9 

His  condition  seemed  to  preclude  the  pos 
sibility  of  his  knowing  who  he  was,  so  I  told 
him. 

He  sneered  as  I  have  seen  men  sneer  only  in 
melodrama. 

"Oh,    of    course,"    he    muttered.     "Oh,    of 


course." 


He  lurched  toward  me  indignantly. 

''You  know  perfec'Iy  well  Jones  is  not  my 
name.  You  know  perfec'Iy  well  who  I  am." 

"My  dear  sir,"  I  said,  "I  don't  know  anything 
about  you,  except  that  you  are  a  damned 


nuisance." 


He  swayed  from  me,  pained  and  surprised. 
Apparently  he  was  upon  an  outbreak  of  tears. 

"Proud,"  he  murmured,  "and  haughty. 
Proud  and  haughty  to  the  last." 

I  never  have  understood  why  an  intoxicated 
man  feels  the  climax  of  insult  is  to  hurl  at  you 
your  name.  Perhaps  because  he  knows  it  is 
the  one  charge  you  cannot  deny.  But  invari 
ably  before  you  escape,  as  though  assured  the 
words  will  cover  your  retreat  with  shame, 

95 


THE  SPY 

he  throws  at  you  your  full  title.      Jones  did 
this. 

Slowly  and  mercilessly  he  repeated,  "Mr.— 
George — Morgan — Crosby.     Of    Harvard,"    he 
added.     "Proud  and  haughty  to  the  last." 

He  then  embraced  a  passing  steward,  and  de 
manded  to  be  informed  why  the  ship  rolled.  He 
never  knew  a  ship  to  roll  as  our  ship  rolled. 

"Perfec'Iy  satisfact'ry  ocean,  but  ship — rolling 
like  a  stone-breaker.  Take  me  some  place  in 
the  ship  where  this  ship  don't  roll." 

The  steward  led  him  away. 

When  he  had  dropped  the  local  pilot  the  cap 
tain  beckoned  me  to  the  bridge. 

"I  saw  you  talking  to  Mr.  Schnitzel,"  he  said. 
"He's  a  little  under  the  weather.  He  has  too 
light  a  head  for  liquors." 

I  agreed  that  he  had  a  light  head,  and  said  I 
understood  his  name  was  Jones. 

"  That's  what  I  wanted  to  tell  you,"  said  the 
captain.  "His  name  is  Schnitzel.  He  used  to 
work  for  the  Nitrate  Trust  in  New  York.  Then 
he  came  down  here  as  an  agent.  He's  a  good 
boy  not  to  tell  things  to.  Understand?  Some 
times  I  carry  him  under  one  name,  and  the  next 
voyage  under  another.  The  purser  and  he  fix 
it  up  between  'em.  It  pleases  him,  and  it  don't 
hurt  anybody  else,  so  long  as  I  tell  them  about 
it.  I  don't  know  who  he's  working  for  now," 
he  went  on,  "but  I  know  he's  not  with  the 

96 


THE  SPY 

Nitrate  Company  any  more.  He  sold  them 
out." 

"How  could  he?"  I  asked.  "He's  only 
a  boy." 

"He  had  a  berth  as  typewriter  to  Senator 
Burnsides,  president  of  the  Nitrate  Trust,  sort 
of  confidential  stenographer,"  said  the  captain. 
"Whenever  the  senator  dictated  an  important 
letter,  they  say,  Schnitzel  used  to  make  a  carbon 
copy,  and  when  he  had  enough  of  them  he 
sold  them  to  the  Walker-Keefe  crowd.  Then, 
when  Walker-Keefe  lost  their  suit  in  the  Valen 
cia  Supreme  Court  I  guess  Schnitzel  went  over 
to  President  Alvarez.  And  again,  some  folks 
say  he's  back  with  the  Nitrate  Company." 

"After  he  sold  them  out?" 

"Yes,  but  you  see  he's  worth  more  to  them 
now.  He  knows  all  the  Walker-Keefe  secrets 
and  Alvarez's  secrets,  too." 

I  expressed  my  opinion  of  every  one  concerned. 

"It  shouldn't  suiprise  you,"  complained  the 
captain.  "You  know  the  country.  Every  man 
in  it  is  out  for  something  that  isn't  his.  The 
pilot  wants  his  bit,  the  health  doctor  must  get 
his,  the  customs  take  all  your  cigars,  and  if  you 
don't  put  up  gold  for  the  captain  of  the  port  and 
the  alcalde  and  the  commandant  and  the  harbor 
police  and  the  foreman  of  the  cargadpres,  they 
won't  move  a  lighter,  and  they'll  hold  up  the 

97 


THE  SPY 

ship's  papers.  Well,  an  American  comes  down 
here,  honest  and  straight  and  willing  to  work  for 
his  wages.  But  pretty  quick  he  finds  every  one 
is  getting  his  squeeze  but  him,  so  he  tries  to  get 
some  of  it  back  by  robbing  the  natives  that 
robbed  him.  Then  he  robs  the  other  foreigners, 
and  it  ain't  long  before  he's  cheating  the  people 
at  home  who  sent  him  here.  There  isn't  a  man 
in  this  nitrate  row  that  isn't  robbing  the  crowd 
he's  with,  and  that  wouldn't  change  sides  for 
money.  Schnitzel's  no  worse  than  the  president 
nor  the  canteen  contractor." 

He  waved  his  hand  at  the  glaring  coast-line, 
at  the  steaming  swamps  and  the  hot,  naked 
mountains. 

"  It's  the  country  that  does  it,"  he  said.  "  It's 
in  the  air.  You  can  smell  it  as  soon  as  you 
drop  anchor,  like  you  smell  the  slaughter-house 
at  Punta  Arenas." 

"How  do  you  manage  to  keep  honest,"  I 
asked,  smiling. 

"I  don't  take  any  chances,"  exclaimed  the 
captain  seriously.  "When  I'm  in  their  damned 
port  I  don't  go  ashore." 

I  did  not  again  see  Schnitzel  until,  with  hag 
gard  eyes  and  suspiciously  wet  hair,  he  joined 
the  captain,  doctor,  purser,  and  myself  at  break 
fast.  In  the  phrases  of  the  Tenderloin,  he  told 
us  cheerfully  that  he  had  been  grandly  intoxi- 


THE  SPY 

cated,  and  to  recover  drank  mixtures  of  raw 
egg,  vinegar,  and  red  pepper,  the  sight  of  which 
took  away  every  appetite  save  his  own.  When 
to  this  he  had  added  a  bottle  of  beer,  he  declared 
himself  a  new  man.  The  new  man  followed  me 
to  the  deck,  and  with  the  truculent  bearing  of 
one  who  expects  to  be  repelled,  he  asked  if,  the 
day  before,  he  had  not  made  a  fool  of  himself. 

I  suggested  he  had  been  somewhat  con 
fidential. 

At  once  he  recovered  his  pose  and  patronized 
me. 

"Don't  you  believe  it,"  he  said.  "That's  all 
part  of  my  game.  'Confidence  for  confidence' 
is  the  way  I  work  it.  That's  how  I  learn  things. 
I  tell  a  man  something  on  the  inside,  and  he 
says:  'Here's  a  nice  young  fellow.  Nothing 
stand-offish  about  him,'  and  he  tells  me  some 
thing  he  shouldn't.  Like  as  not  what  I  told 
him  wasn't  true.  See?" 

I  assured  him  he  interested  me  greatly. 

c<You  find,  then,  in  your  line  of  business,"  I 
asked,  "that  apparent  frankness  is  advisable? 
As  a  rule,"  I  explained,  "secrecy  is  what  a — a 
person  in  your  line — a " 

To  save  his  feelings  I  hesitated  at  the  word. 

"A  spy,"  he  said.  His  face  beamed  with 
fatuous  complacency. 

"But  if  I  had  not  known  you  were  a  spy,"  I 
99 


THE  SPY 

asked,  "would  not  that  have  been  better  for 
you?" 

"In  dealing  with  a  party  like  you,  Mr.  Cros 
by,"  Schnitzel  began  sententiously,  "I  use  a 
different  method.  You're  on  a  secret  mission 
yourself,  and  you  get  your  information  about 
the  nitrate  row  one  way,  and  I  get  it  another. 
I  deal  with  you  just  like  we  were  drummers  in 
the  same  line  of  goods.  We  are  rivals  in  busi 
ness,  but  outside  of  business  hours  perfect 
gentlemen." 

In  the  face  of  the  disbelief  that  had  met  my 
denials  of  any  secret  mission,  I  felt  to  have 
Schnitzel  also  disbelieve  me  would  be  too  great 
a  humiliation.  So  I  remained  silent. 

"You  make  your  report  to  the  State  Depart 
ment,"  he  explained,  "and  I  make  mine  to — my 
people.  Who  they  are  doesn't  matter.  You'd 
like  to  know,  and  I  don't  want  to  hurt  your 
feelings,  but — that's  my  secret." 

My  only  feelings  were  a  desire  to  kick  Schnit 
zel  heavily,  but  for  Schnitzel  to  suspect  that  was 
impossible.  Rather,  he  pictured  me  as  shaken 
by  his  disclosures. 

As  he  hung  over  the  rail  the  glare  of  the 
sun  on  the  tumbling  water  lit  up  his  foolish, 
mongrel  features,  exposed  their  cunning,  their 
utter  lack  of  any  character,  and  showed  behind 
the  shifty  eyes  the  vacant,  half-crooked  mind. 

100 


THE  SPY 

Schnitzel  was  smiling  to  himself  with  a  smile 
of  complete  self-satisfaction.  In  the  light  of 
his  later  conduct,  I  grew  to  understand  that 
smile.  He  had  anticipated  a  rebuff.;  :aml  he 
had  been  received,  as  he  read  it.- with,  considera 
tion.  The  irony  of  my  politeness  he*  had  entirely' 
missed.  Instead,  he  read  in  what  I  said  the1 
admiration  of  the  amateur  for  the  professional. 
He  saw  what  he  believed  to  be  a  high  agent  of 
the  Government  treating  him  as  a  worthy  antag 
onist.  In  no  other  way  can  I  explain  his  later 
heaping  upon  me  his  confidences.  It  was  the 
vanity  of  a  child  trying  to  show  off. 

In  ten  days,  in  the  limited  area  of  a  two- 
thousand-ton  steamer,  one  could  not  help  but 
learn  something  of  the  history  of  so  communi 
cative  a  fellow-passenger  as  Schnitzel.  His 
parents  were  German  and  still  lived  in  Germany. 
But  he  himself  had  been  brought  up  on  the  East 
Side.  An  uncle  who  kept  a  delicatessen  shop 
in  Avenue  A  had  sent  him  to  the  public  schools 
and  then  to  a  "business  college,"  where  he  had 
developed  remarkable  expertness  as'  a  stenog 
rapher.  He  referred  to  his  skill  in  this  difficult 
exercise  with  pitying  contempt.  Nevertheless, 
from  a  room  noisy  with  typewriters  this  skill 
had  lifted  him  into  the  private  office  of  the 
president  of  the  Nitrate  Trust.  There,  as 
Schnitzel  expressed  it,  "I  saw  'mine/  and  I 

101 


THE  SPY 

took  it."  To  trace  back  the  criminal  instinct 
that  led  Schnitzel  to  steal  and  sell  the  private 
letters  of  his  employer  was  not  difficult.  In 
all  of  hist  £ew  early  years  I  found  it  lying  latent. 
Of  £\rery. story  he  told  of  himself,  and  he  talked 
-only  of  himself,  there  was  not  one  that  was 
not  to  his  discredit.  He  himself  never  saw  this, 
nor  that  all  he  told  me  showed  he  was  without 
the  moral  sense,  and  with  an  instinctive  enjoy 
ment  of  what  was  deceitful,  mean,  and  under 
hand.  That,  as  I  read  it,  was  his  character. 

In  appearance  he  was  smooth-shaven,  with 
long  locks  that  hung  behind  wide,  protruding 
ears.  He  had  the  unhealthy  skin  of  bad  blood, 
and  his  eyes,  as  though  the  daylight  hurt  them, 
constantly  opened  and  shut.  He  was  like 
hundreds  of  young  men  that  you  see  loitering 
on  upper  Broadway  and  making  predatory  raids 
along  the  Rialto.  Had  you  passed  him  in  that 
neighborhood  you  would  have  set  him  down  as 
a  wire-tapper,  a  racing  tout,  a  would-be  actor. 

As  I  worked  it  out,  Schnitzel  was  a  spy  be 
cause  it  gave  him  an  importance  he  had  not 
been  able  to  obtain  by  any  other  effort.  As  a 
child  and  as  a  clerk,  it  was  easy  to  see  that 
among  his-  associates  Schnitzel  must  always 
have  been  the  butt.  Until  suddenly,  by  one 
dirty  action,  he  had  placed  himself  outside  their 
class.  As  he  expressed  it:  "Whenever  I  walk 

102 


THE  SPY 

through  the  office  now,  where  all  the  stenogra 
phers  sit,  you  ought  to  see  those  slobs  look 
after  me.  When  they  go  to  the  president's 
door,  they  got  to  knock,  like  I  used  to,  but  now, 
when  the  old  man  sees  me  coming  to  make  my 
report  after  one  of  these  trips  he  calls  out, 
'Come  right  in,  Mr.  Schnitzel.'  And  like  as 
not  I  go  in  with  my  hat  on  and  offer  him  a  cigar. 
An'  they  see  me  do  it,  too!" 

To  me,  that  speech  seemed  to  give  Schnitzel's 
view  of  the  values  of  his  life.  His  vanity  de 
manded  he  be  pointed  at,  if  even  with  con 
tempt.  But  the  contempt  never  reached  him 
—he  only  knew  that  at  last  people  took  note  of 
him.  They  no  longer  laughed  at  him,  they 
were  afraid  of  him.  In  his  heart  he  believed 
that  they  regarded  him  as  one  who  walked  in 
the  dark  places  of  world  politics,  who  possessed 
an  evil  knowledge  of  great  men  as  evil  as  him 
self,  as  one  who  by  blackmail  helc  public  min 
isters  at  his  mercy. 

This  view  of  himself  was  the  one  that  he 
tried  to  give  me.  I  probably  was  the  first 
decent  man  who  ever  had  treated  him  civilly, 
and  to  impress  me  with  his  knowledge  he  spread 
that  knowledge  before  me.  It  wras  sale,  shock* 
ing,  degrading. 

At  first  I  took  comfort  in  the  thought  that 
Schnitzel  was  a  liar.  Later,  I  began  to  wonder 

103 


THE  SPY 

if  all  of  it  were  a  lie,  and  finally,  in  a  way  It 
could  not  doubt,  it  was  proved  to  me  that  the 
worst  he  charged  was  true. 

The  night  I  first  began  to  believe  him  was 
the  night  we  touched  at  Cristobal,  the  last  port 
in  Valencia.  In  the  most  light-hearted  manner 
he  had  been  accusing  all  concerned  in  the  ni 
trate  fight  with  every  crime  known  in  Wall 
Street  and  in  the  dark  reaches  of  the  Congo 
River. 

"But,  I  know  him,  Mr.  Schnitzel,"  I  said 
sternly.  "He  is  incapable  of  it.  I  went  to 
college  with  him." 

"I  don't  care  whether  he's  a  rah-rah  boy  or 
not,"  said  Schnitzel,  "I  know  that's  what  he 
did  when  he  was  up  the  Orinoco  after  orchids, 
and  if  the  tribe  had  ever  caught  him  they'd 
have  crucified  him.  And  I  know  this,  too:  he 
made  forty  thousand  dollars  out  of  the  Nitrate 
Company  on  a  ten-thousand-dollar  job.  And 
I  know  it,  because  he  beefed  to  me  about  it 
himself,  because  it  wasn't  big  enough." 

We  were  passing  the  limestone  island  at  the 
entrance  to  the  harbor,  where,  in  the  prison 
fortress,  with  its  muzzle-loading  guns  pointing 
drunkenly  at  the  sky,  are  buried  the  political 
prisoners  of  Valencia. 

"Now,  there,"  said  Schnitzel,  pointing,  "that 
shows  you  what  the  Nitrate  Trust  can  do. 

104 


THE  SPY 

Judge  Rojas  is  in  there.  He  gave  the  first 
decision  in  favor  of  the  Walker-Keefe  people, 
and  for  making  that  decision  William  T.  Scott, 
the  Nitrate  manager,  made  Alvarez  put  Rojas 
in  there.  He's  seventy  years  old,  and  he's  been 
there  five  years.  The  cell  they  keep  him  in  is 
below  the  sea-level,  and  the  salt-water  leaks 
through  the  wall.  I've  seen  it.  That's  what 
William  T.  Scott  did,  an'  up  in  New  York 
people  think  'Billy'  Scott  is  a  fine  man.  I  seen 
him  at  the  Horse  Show  sitting  in  a  box,  bowing 
to  everybody,  with  his  wife  sitting  beside  him, 
all  hung  out  with  pearls.  An'  that  was  only 
a  month  after  I'd  seen  Rojas  in  that  sewer 
where  Scott  put  him." 

"Schnitzel,"  I  laughed,  "you  certainly  are  a 
magnificent  liar." 

Schnitzel  showed  no  resentment. 

"Go  ashore  and  look  for  yourself,"  he  mut 
tered.  "Don't  believe  me.  Ask  Rojas.  Ask 
the  first  man  you  meet."  He  shivered,  and 
shrugged  his  shoulders.  "I  tell  you,  the  walls 
are  damp,  like  sweat." 

The  Government  had  telegraphed  the  com 
mandant  to  come  on  board  and,  as  he  expressed 
it,  "offer  me  the  hospitality  of  the  port,"  which 
meant  that  I  had  to  take  him  to  the  smoking- 
room  and  give  him  champagne.  What  the 
Government  really  wanted  was  to  find  out 

105 


THE  SPY 

whether  I  was  still  on  board,  and  if  it  were 
finally  rid  of  me. 

I  asked  the  official  concerning  Judge  Rojas. 

"Oh,  yes,"  he  said  readily.  "He  is  still  in- 
comunicado" 

Without  believing  it  would  lead  to  anything, 
I  suggested: 

"It  was  foolish  of  him  to  give  offense  to  Mr, 
Scott?" 

The  commandant  nodded  vivaciously. 

"Mr.  Scott  is  very  powerful  man,"  he  assent 
ed.  "We  all  very  much  love  Mr.  Scott.  The 
president,  he  love  Mr.  Scott,  too,  but  the  judges 
were  not  sympathetic  to  Mr.  Scott,  so  Mr. 
Scott  asked  our  president  to  give  them  a  warn 
ing,  and  Sefior  Rojas — he  is  the  warning." 

"When  will  he  get  out?"  I  asked. 

The  commandant  held  up  the  glass  in  the 
sunlight  from  the  open  air-port,  and  gazed  ad 
miringly  at  the  bubbles. 

"Who  can  tell,"  he  said.  "Any  day  when 
Mr.  Scott  wishes.  Maybe,  never.  Sefior  Rojas 
is  an  old  man.  Old,  and  he  has  much  rheumat 
ics.  Maybe,  he  will  never  come  out  to  see  our 
beloved  country  any  more." 

As  we  left  the  harbor  we  passed  so  close  that 
one  could  throw  a  stone  against  the  wall  of  the 
fortress.  The  sun  was  just  sinking  and  the  air 
became  suddenly  chilled.  Around  the  little 

1 06 


THE  SPY 

island  of  limestone  the  waves  swept  through  the 
sea-weed  and  black  manigua  up  to  the  rusty 
bars  of  the  cells.  I  saw  the  barefooted  soldiers 
smoking  upon  the  sloping  ramparts,  the  com 
mon  criminals  in  a  long  stumbling  line  bearing 
kegs  of  water,  three  storm-beaten  palms  rising 
like  gallows,  and  the  green  and  yellow  flag  of 
Valencia  crawling  down  the  staff.  Somewhere 
entombed  in  that  blotched  and  mildewed  ma 
sonry  an  old  man  of  seventy  years  was  shiver 
ing  and  hugging  himself  from  the  damp  and 
cold.  A  man  who  spoke  five  languages,  a  just, 
brave  gentleman.  To  me  it  was  no  new  story. 
I  knew  of  the  horrors  of  Cristobal  prison;  of 
political  rivals  chained  to  criminals  loathsome 
with  disease,  of  men  who  had  raised  the  flag  of 
revolution  driven  to  suicide.  But  never  had  I 
supposed  that  my  own  people  could  reach  from 
the  city  of  New  York  and  cast  a  fellow-man 
into  that  cellar  of  fever  and  madness. 

As  I  watched  the  yellow  wall  sink  into  the 
sea,  I  became  conscious  that  Schnitzel  was  near 
me,  as  before,  leaning  on  the  rail,  with  his  chin 
sunk  on  his  arms.  His  face  was  turned  toward 
the  fortress,  and  for  the  first  time  since  I  had 
known  him  it  was  set  and  serious.  And  when, 
a  moment  later,  he  passed  me  without  recogni 
tion,  I  saw  that  his  ey$s  were  filled  with  fear. 

When  we  touched  at  Curagoa  I  sent  a  cable 
107 


THE  SPY 

"Schnitzel,  how  much  did  you  pay  that  French 
man  to  let  you  read  my  second  cable?" 

Schnitzel's  reply  was  prompt  and  compla 
cent. 

"One  hundred  dollars  gold.  It  was  worth  it. 
Do  you  want  to  know  how  I  doped  it  out?" 

I  even  challenged  him  to  do  so.  " Roses  red' 
— war  declared;  Violets  blue* — outlook  bad, 
or  blue;  'send  snow' — send  squadron,  because 
the  white  squadron  is  white  like  snow.  See? 
It  was  too  easy." 

"Schnitzel,"  I  cried,  "you  are  wonderful!" 

Schnitzel  yawned  in  my  face. 

"Oh,  you  don't  have  to  hit  the  soles  of  my 
feet  with  a  night-stick  to  keep  me  awake,"  he 
said. 

After  I  had  been  a  week  at  sea,  I  found  that 
either  I  had  to  believe  that  in  all  things  Schnitzel 
was  a  liar,  or  that  the  men  of  the  Nitrate  Trust 
were  in  all  things  evil.  I  was  convinced  that 
instead  of  the  people  of  Valencia  robbing  them, 
they  were  robbing  both  the  people  of  Valencia 
and  the  people  of  the  United  States. 

To  go  to  war  on  their  account  was  to  degrade 
our  Government.  I  explained  to  Schnitzel  it 
was  not  becoming  that  the  United  States  navy 
should  be  made  the  cat's-paw  of  a  corrupt 
corporation.  I  asked  his  permission  to  repeat 
to  the  authorities  at  Washington  certain  of  the 
statements  he  had  made. 

109 


THE  SPY 

Schnitzel  was  greatly  pleased. 

!t You're  welcome  to  tell  'em  anything  I've 
said,"  he  assented.  "And,"  he  added,  "most 
of  it's  true,  too." 

I  wrote  down  certain  charges  he  had  made, 
and  added  what  I  had  always  known  of  the 
nitrate  fight.  It  was  a  terrible  arraignment. 
In  the  evening  I  read  my  notes  to  Schnitzel, 
who,  in  a  corner  of  the  smoking-room,  sat, 
frowning  importantly,  checking  off  each  state 
ment,  and  where  I  made  an  error  of  a  date  or  a 
name,  severely  correcting  me. 

Several  times  I  asked  him,  "Are  you  sure  this 
won't  get  you  into  trouble  with  your  'people'? 
You  seem  to  accuse  everybody  on  each  side." 

Schnitzel's  eyes  instantly  closed  with  sus 
picion. 

"Don't  you  worry  about  me  and  my  people," 
he  returned  sulkily.  "  That's  my  secret,  and 
you  won't  find  it  out,  neither.  I  may  be  as 
crooked  as  the  rest  of  them,  but  I'm  not  giving 
away  my  employer." 

I  suppose  I  looked  puzzled. 

"  I  mean  not  a  second  time,"  he  added  hastily. 
"  I  know  what  you're  thinking  of,  and  I  got  five 
thousand  dollars  for  it.  But  now  I  mean  to 
stick  by  the  men  that  pay  my  wages." 

"But  you've  told  me  enough  about  each  cf 
the  three  to  put  any  one  of  them  in  jail." 

no 


THE  SPY 

"Of  course,  I  have,"  cried  Schnitzel  trium 
phantly. 

"If  I'd  let  down  on  any  one  crowd  you'd 
know  I  was  working  for  that  crowd,  so  I've 
touched  'em  all  up.  Only  what  I  told  you 
about  my  crowd — isn't  true." 

The  report  we  finally  drew  up  was  so  sensa 
tional  that  I  was  of  a  mind  to  throw  it  overboard. 
It  accused  members  of  the  Cabinet,  of  our  Sen 
ate,  diplomats,  business  men  of  national  interest, 
judges  of  the  Valencia  courts,  private  secre 
taries,  clerks,  hired  bullies,  and  filibusters. 
Men  tlie  trust  'could  not  bribe  it  had  black 
mailed.  Those  it  could  not  corrupt,  and  they 
were  pitifully  few,  it  crushed  with  some  disgrace 
ful  charge. 

Looking  over  my  notes,  I  said: 

"You  seem  to  have  made  every  charge  except 
murder." 

"How'd  I  come  to  leave  that  out?"  Schnitzel 
answered  flippantly.  "What  about  Coleman, 
the  foreman  at  Bahia,  and  that  German  con 
tractor,  Ebhardt,  and  old  Smedburg?  They 
talked  too  much,  and  they  died  of  yellow-fever, 
maybe,  and  maybe  what  happened  to  them  was 
they  ate  knockout  drops  in  their  soup." 

I  disbelieved  him,  but  there  came  a  sudden 
nasty  doubt. 

"Curtis,  who  managed  the  company's  plant 
in 


THE  SPY 

at  Barcelona,  died  of  yellow-fever,"  I  said,  "and 
was  buried  the  same  day." 

For  some  time  Schnitzel  glowered  uncertainly 
at  the  bulkhead. 

"Did  you  know  him?"  he  asked. 

"When  I  was  in  the  legation  I  knew  him  well," 
I  said. 

"So  did  I,"  said  Schnitzel.  "He  wasn't 
murdered.  He  murdered  himself.  He  was 
wrong  ten  thousand  dollars  in  his  accounts. 
He  got  worrying  about  it  and  we  found  him 
outside  the  clearing  with  a  hole  in  his  head. 
He  left  a  note  saying  he  couldn't  bear  the 
disgrace.  As  if  the  company  would  hold  a 
little  grafting  against  as  good  a  man  as  Curtis  !" 

Schnitzel  coughed  and  pretended  it  was  his 
cigarette. 

''You  see  you  don't  put  in  nothing  against 
him,"  he  added  savagely. 

It  was  the  first  time  I  had  seen  Schnitzel  show 
emotion,  and  I  was  moved  to  preach. 

"Why  don't  you  quit?"  I  said.  "You  had 
an  A  i  job  as  a  stenographer.  Why  don't  you 
go  back  to  it?" 

"Maybe,  some  day.  But  it's  great  being 
your  own  boss.  If  I  was  a  stenographer,  I 
wouldn't  be  helping  you  send  in  a  report  to 
the  State  Department,  would  I?  No,  this  job 
is  all  right.  They  send  you  after  something 

112 


THE  SPY 

big,  and  you  have  the  devil  of  a  time  getting  it, 
but  when  you  get  it,  you  feel  like  you  had  picked 
a  hundred-to-one  shot." 

The  talk  or  the  drink  had  elated  him.  His 
fish-like  eyes  bulged  and  shone.  He  cast  a 
quick  look  about  him.  Except  for  ourselves, 
the  smoking-room  was  empty.  From  below 
came  the  steady  throb  of  the  engines,  and  from 
outside  the  whisper  of  the  waves  and  of  the 
wind  through  the  cordage.  A  barefooted  sailor 
pattered  by  to  the  bridge.  Schnitzel  bent 
toward  me,  and  with  his  hand  pointed  to  his 
throat. 

"  I've  got  papers  on  me  that's  worth  a  million 
to  a  certain  party,"  he  wrhispered.  "You  under 
stand,  my  notes  in  cipher." 

He  scowled  with  intense  mystery. 

"  I  keep  'em  in  an  oiled-silk  bag,  tied  around 
my  neck  with  a  string.  And  here,"  he  added 
hastily,  patting  his  hip,  as  though  to  forestall 
any  attack  I  might  make  upon  his  person,  "I 
carry  my  automatic.  It  shoots  nine  bullets 
in  five  seconds.  They  got  to  be  quick  to  catch 


me." 


"Well,  if  you  have  either  of  those  things  on 
you,"  I  said  testily,  "  I  don't  want  to  know  it. 
How  often  have  I  told  you  not  to  talk  and  drink 
at  the  same  time?" 

"Ah,  go  on,"  laughed  Schnitzel.     "That's  an 


THE  SPY 

old  gag,  warning  a  fellow  not  to  talk  so  as  to 
make  him  talk.  I  do  that  myself." 

That  Schnitzel  had  important  papers  tied  to 
his  neck  I  no  more  believe  than  that  he  wore  a 
shirt  of  chain  armor,  but  to  please  him  I  pre 
tended  to  be  greatly  concerned. 

"Now  that  we're  getting  into  New  York,"  I 
said,  "you  must  be  very  careful.  A  man  who 
carries  such  important  documents  on  his  person 
might  be  murdered  for  them.  I  think  you 
ought  to  disguise  yourself." 

A  picture  of  my  bag  being  carried  ashore  by 
Schnitzel  in  the  uniform  of  a  ship's  steward 
rather  pleased  me. 

"Go  on,  you're  kidding !"  said  Schnitzel.  He 
was  drawn  between  believing  I  was  deeply  im 
pressed  and  with  fear  that  I  was  mocking  him. 

"On  the  contrary,"  I  protested,  "I  don't  feel 
quite  safe  myself.  Seeing  me  with  you  they  may 
think  I  have  papers  around  my  neck." 

"They  wouldn't  look  at  you,"  Schnitzel  reas 
sured  me.  "They  know  you're  just  an  amateur. 
But,  as  you  say,  with  me,  it's  different.  I  got 
to  be  careful.  Now,  you  mightn't  believe  it,  but 
I  never  go  near  my  uncle  nor  none  of  my  friends 
that  live  where  I  used  to  hang  out.  If  I  did, 
the  other  spies  would  get  on  my  track.  I 
suppose,"  he  went  on  grandly,  "I  never  go  out 
in  New  York  but  that  at  least  two  spies  are 

114 


THE  SPY 

trailing  me.  But  I  know  how  to  throw  them 
off.  I  live  'way  downtown  in  a  little  hotel 
you  never  heard  of.  You  never  catch  me  dining 
at  Sherry's  nor  the  Waldorf.  And  you  never 
met  me  out  socially,  did  you,  now?" 

I  confessed  I  had  not. 

"And  then,  I  always  live  under  an  assumed 


name." 


"Like  'Jones'?"  I  suggested. 

"Well,  sometimes  'Jones,'"  he  admitted. 
'  To  me,"  I  said,  " '  Jones'  lacks   imagina 
tion.     It's   the  sort  of  name  you   give  when 
you're  arrested  for  exceeding  the  speed  limit. 
Why  don't  you  call  yourself  Machiavelli?" 

"Go  on,  I'm  no  dago,"  said  Schnitzel,  "and 
don't  you  go  off  thinking  'Jones'  is  the  only 
disguise  I  use.  But  I'm  not  tellin'  what  it  is, 
am  I?  Oh,  no." 

"Schnitzel,"  I  asked,  "have  you  ever  been 
told  that  you  would  make  a  great  detective?" 

"Cut  it  out,"  said  Schnitzel.  "You've  been 
reading  those  fairy  stories.  There's  no  fly  cops 
nor  Pinks  could  do  the  work  I  do.  They're 
pikers  compared  to  me.  They  chase  petty- 
larceny  cases  and  kick  in  doors.  I  wouldn't 
stoop  to  what  they  do.  It's  being  mixed  up  the 
way  I  am  with  the  problems  of  two  governments 
that  catches  me."  He  added  magnanimously, 
"You  see  something  of  that  yourself." 

M4 


THE  SPY 

We  left  the  ship  at  Brooklyn,  and  with  regret 
I  prepared  to  bid  Schnitzel  farewell.  Seldom 
had  I  met  a  little  beast  so  offensive,  but  his 
vanity,  his  lies,  his  moral  blindness,  made  one 
pity  him.  And  in  ten  days  in  the  smoking- 
room  together  we  had  had  many  friendly  drinks 
and  many  friendly  laughs.  He  was  going  to  a 
hotel  on  lower  Broadway,  and  as  my  cab,  on 
my  way  uptown,  passed  the  door,  I  offered  him 
a  lift.  He  appeared  to  consider  the  advisa 
bility  of  this,  and  then,  with  much  by-play  of 
glancing  over  his  shoulder,  dived  into  the  front 
seat  and  drew  down  the  blinds.  "This  hotel 
I  am  going  to  is  an  old-fashioned  trap,"  he 
explained,  "but  the  clerk  is  wise  to  me,  under 
stand,  and  I  don't  have  to  sign  the  register." 

As  we  drew  nearer  to  the  hotel,  he  said:  " It's 
a  pity  we  can't  dine  out  somewheres  and  go  to 
the  theatre,  but — you  know?" 

With  almost  too  much  heartiness  I  hastily 
agreed  it  would  be  imprudent. 

"I  understand  perfectly,"  I  assented.  "You 
are  a  marked  man.  Until  you  get  those  papers 
safe  in  the  hands  of  your  'people,'  you  must  be 
very  cautious." 

"That's  right,"  he  said.  Then  he  smiled 
craftily. 

"  I  wonder  if  you're  on  yet  to  which  my  people 


are/' 


116 


THE  SPY 

I  assured  him  that  I  had  no  idea,  but  that  from 
the  avidity  with  which  he  had  abused  them  I 
guessed  he  was  working  for  the  Walker-Keefe 
crowd. 

He  both  smiled  and  scowled. 

"Don't  you  wish  you  knew?"  he  said.  "I've 
told  you  a  lot  of  inside  stories,  Mr.  Crosby,  but 
FII  never  tell  on  my  pals  again.  Not  me ! 
That's  my  secret." 

At  the  door  of  the  hotel  he  bade  me  a  hasty 
good-by,  and  for  a  few  minutes  I  believed  that 
Schnitzel  had  passed  out  of  my  life  forever. 
Then,  in  taking  account  of  my  belongings,  ! 
missed  my  field-glasses.  I  remembered  that,  in 
order  to  open  a  trunk  for  the  customs  inspec 
tors,  I  had  handed  them  to  Schnitzel,  and 
that  he  had  hung  them  over  his  shoulder.  In 
our  haste  at  parting  we  both  had  forgotten 
them. 

I  was  only  a  few  blocks  from  the  hotel,  and  I 
told  the  man  to  return. 

.  I  inquired  for  Mr.  Schnitzel,  and  the  clerk, 
who  apparently  knew  him  by  that  name,  said 
he  was  in  his  room,  number  eighty-two. 

"But  he  has  a  caller  with  him  now,"  he  added. 
"A  gentleman  was  waiting  for  him,  and's  just 
gone  up." 

I  wrote  on  my  card  why  I  had  called,  and  soon 
after  it  had  been  borne  skyward  the  clerk  said: 

117 


THE  SPY 

"I  guess  he'll  be  able  to  see  you  now.  That's 
the  party  that  was  calling  on  him,  there." 

He  nodded  toward  a  man  who  crossed  tne 
rotunda  quickly.  His  face  was  twisted  from 
us,  as  though,  as  he  almost  ran  toward  the 
street,  he  were  reading  the  advertisements  on 
the  wall. 

He  reached  the  door,  and  was  lost  in  the  great 
tide  of  Broadway. 

I  crossed  to  the  elevator,  and  as  I  stood  wait 
ing,  it  descended  with  a  crash,  and  the  boy  who 
had  taken  my  card  flung  himself,  shrieking,  into 
the  rotunda. 

"That  man — stop  him!"  he  cried.  "The 
man  in  eighty-two — he's  murdered." 

The  clerk  vaulted  the  desk  and  sprang  into  the 
street,  and  I  dragged  the  boy  back  to  the  wire 
rope  and  we  shot  to  the  third  story.  The  boy 
shrank  back.  A  chambermaid,  crouching  against 
the  wall,  her  face  colorless,  lowered  one  hand, 
and  pointed  at  an  open  door. 

"  In  there,"  she  whispered. 

In  a  mean,  common  room,  stretched  where  he 
had  been  struck  back  upon  the  bed,  I  found  the 
boy  who  had  elected  to  meddle  in  the  "problems 
of  two  governments." 

In  tiny  jets,  from  three  wide  knife-wounds,  his 
blood  flowed  slowly.  His  staring  eyes  were 
lifted  up  in  fear  and  in  entreaty.  I  knew  that 

118 


THE  SPY 

he  was  dying,  and  as  I  felt  my  impotence  to 
help  him,  I  as  keenly  felt  a  great  rage  and  a 
hatred  toward  those  who  had  struck  him. 

I  leaned  over  him  until  my  eyes  were  only  a 
few  inches  from  his  face. 

"Schnitzel !"  I  cried.  "Who  did  this?  You 
can  trust  me.  Who  did  this?  Quick!" 

I  saw  that  he  recognized  me,  and  that  there 
was  something  which,  with  terrible  effort,  he 
was  trying  to  make  me  understand. 

In  the  hall  was  the  rush  of  many  people,  run 
ning,  exclaiming,  the  noise  of  bells  ringing; 
from  another  floor  the  voice  of  a  woman  shrieked 
hysterically. 

At  the  sounds  the  eyes  of  the  boy  grew  elo 
quent  with  entreaty,  and  with  a  movement  that 
called  from  each  wound  a  fresh  outburst,  like  a 
man  strangling,  he  lifted  his  fingers  to  his  throat. 

Voices  were  calling  for  water,  to  wait  for 
the  doctor,  to  wait  for  the  police.  But  I 
thought  I  understood. 

Still  doubting  him,  still  unbelieving,  ashamed 
of  my  own  credulity,  I  tore  at  his  collar,  and  my 
fingers  closed  upon  a  package  of  oiled  silk. 

I  stooped,  and  with  my  teeth  ripped  it  open, 
and  holding  before  him  the  slips  of  paper  it 
contained,  tore  them  into  tiny  shreds. 

The  eyes  smiled  at  me  with  cunning,  with 
triumph,  with  deep  content. 

119 


THE  SPY 

It  was  so  like  the  Schnitzel  I  had  known  that 
I  believed  still  he  might  have  strength  enough 
to  help  me. 

"Who  did  this?"  I  begged.  "I'll  hang  him 
for  it!  Do  you  hear  me?"  I  cried. 

Seeing  him  lying  there,  with  the  life  cut  out 
of  him,  swept  me  with  a  blind  anger,  with  a 
need  to  punish. 

"I'll  see  they  hang  for  it.  Tell  me!"  I  com 
manded.  "Who  did  this?" 

The  eyes,  now  filled  with  weariness,  looked  up 
and  the  lips  moved  feebly. 

"My  own  people,"  he  whispered. 

In  my  indignation  I  could  have  shaken  the 
truth  from  him.  I  bent  closer. 

''Then,  by  God,"  I  whispered  back,  "you'll 
tell  me  who  they  are!" 

The  eyes  flashed  sullenly. 

"That's  my  secret,"  said  Schnitzel. 

The  eyes  set  and  the  lips  closed. 

A  man  at  my  side  leaned  over  him,  and  drew 
the  sheet  across  his  face. 


1 20 


THE  MESSENGERS 

WHEN  Ainsley  first  moved  to  Lone  Lake 
Farm  all  of  his  friends  asked  him  the  same 
question.  They  wanted  to  know,  if  the  farmer 
who  sold  it  to  him  had  abandoned  it  as  worth 
less,  how  one  of  the  idle  rich,  who  could  not 
distinguish  a  plough  from  a  harrow,  hoped  to 
make  it  pay.  His  answer  was  that  he  had  not 
purchased  the  farm  as  a  means  of  getting  richer 
by  honest  toil,  but  as  a  retreat  from  the  world 
and  as  a  test  of  true  friendship.  He  argued 
that  the  people  he  knew  accepted  his  hospitality 
at  Sherry's  because,  in  any  event,  they  them 
selves  would  be  dining  within  a  taxicab  fare  of 
the  same  place.  But  if  to  see  him  they  travelled 
all  the  way  to  Lone  Lake  Farm,  he  might  feel 
assured  that  they  were  friends  indeed. 

Lone  Lake  Farm  was  spread  over  many  acres 
of  rocky  ravine  and  forest,  at  a  point  where  Con 
necticut  approaches  New  York,  and  between  it 
and  the  nearest  railroad  station  stretched  six 
miles  of  an  execrable  wood  road.  In  this 
wilderness,  directly  upon  the  lonely  lake^  and  at 
a  spot  equally  distant  from  each  of  his  bound- 

121 


.     THE  MESSENGERS 

ary  lines,  Ainsley  built  himself  a  red  brick 
house.  Here,  in  solitude,  he  exiled  himself; 
ostensibly  to  become  a  gentleman  farmer;  in 
reality  to  wait  until  Polly  Kirkland  had  made 
up  her  mind  to  marry  him. 

Lone  Lake,  which  gave  the  farm  its  name,  was 
a  pond  hardly  larger  than  a  city  block.  It  was 
fed  by  hidden  springs,  and  fringed  about  with 
reeds  and  cat-tails,  stunted  willows  and  shivering 
birch.  From  its  surface  jutted  points  of  the 
same  rock  that  had  made  farming  unremunera- 
tive,  and  to  these  miniature  promontories  and 
islands  Ainsley,  in  keeping  with  a  fancied 
resemblance,  gave  such  names  as  the  Needles, 
St.  Helena,  the  Isle  of  Pines.  From  the  edge 
of  the  pond  that  was  farther  from  the  house 
rose  a  high  hill,  heavily  wooded.  At  its  base, 
oak  and  chestnut  trees  spread  their  branches 
over  the  water,  and  when  the  air  was  still  were 
so  clearly  reflected  in  the  pond  that  the  leaves 
seemed  to  float  upon  the  surface.  To  the 
smiling  expanse  of  the  farm  the  lake  was  what 
the  eye  is  to  the  human  countenance.  The 
oaks  were  its  eyebrows,  the  fringe  of  reeds  its 
lashes,  and,  in  changing  mood,  it  flashed  with 
happiness  or  brooded  in  sombre  melancholy. 
For  Ainsley  it  held  a  deep  attraction.  Through 
the  summer  evenings,  as  the  sun  set,  he  would 
sit  on  the  brick  terrace  and  watch  the  fish 

122 


THE  MESSENGERS 

leaping,  and  listen  to  the  venerable  bull-frogs 
croaking  false  alarms  of  rain.  Indeed,  after 
he  met  Polly  Kirkland,  staring  moodily  at  the 
lake  became  his  favorite  form  of  exercise. 
With  a  number  of  other  men,  Ainsley  was  very 
'  much  in  love  with  Miss  Kirkland,  and  unpreju 
diced  friends  thought  that  if  she  were  to  choose 
any  of  her  devotees,  Ainsley  should  be  that 
one.  Ainsley  heartily  agreed  in  this  opinion, 
but  in  persuading  Miss  Kirkland  to  share  it  he 
had  not  been  successful.  This  was  partly  his 
own  fault;  for  when  he  dared  to  compare  what 
she  meant  to  him  with  what  he  had  to  offer  her 
he  became  a  mass  of  sodden  humility.  Could 
he  have  known  how  much  Polly  Kirkland  envied 
and  admired  his  depth  of  feeling,  entirely  apart 
from  the  fact  that  she  herself  inspired  that 
feeling,  how  greatly  she  wished  to  care  for  him 
in  the  way  he  cared  for  her,  life,  even  alone  in 
the  silences  of  Lone  Lake,  would  have  been  a 
beautiful  and  blessed  thing.  But  he  was  so 
sure  she  was  the  most  charming  and  most 
wonderful  girl  in  all  the  world,  and  he  an 
unworthy  and  despicable  being,  that  when  the 
lady  demurred,  he  faltered,  and  his  pleading, 
at  least  to  his  own  ears,  carried  no  conviction. 
"When  one  thinks  of  being  married,"  said 
Polly  Kirkland  gently,  "it  isn't  a  question  of 
the  man  you  can  live  with,  but  the  man  you 

123 


THE  MESSENGERS 

can't  live  without.  And  I  am  sorry,  but  I've 
not  found  that  man/' 

"I  suppose,"  returned  Ainsley  gloomily,  "that 
my  not  being  able  to  live  without  you  doesn't 
affect  the  question  in  the  least?" 

"You  have  lived  without  me,"  Miss  Kirk- 
land  pointed  out  reproachfully,  "for  thirty 
years." 

"Lived !"  almost  shouted  Ainsley.  "Do  you 
call  that  living?  What  was  I  before  I  met  you? 
I  was  an  ignorant  beast  of  the  field.  .  I  knew  as 
much  about  living  as  one  of  the  cows  on  my  farm. 
I  could  sleep  twelve  hours  at  a  stretch,  or,  if  I 
was  in,  New  York,  I  never  slept.  I  was  a  Day 
and  Night  Bank  of  health  and  happiness,  a 
great,  big,  useless  puppy.  And  now  I  can't 
sleep,  can't  eat,  can't  think — except  of  you. 
I  dream  about  you  all  night,  think  about  you 
all  day,  go  through  the  woods  calling  your  name, 
cutting  your  initials  in  tree  trunks,  doing  all 
the  fool  things  a  man  does  when  he's  in  love, 
and  I  am  the  most  miserable  man  in  the  world — 
and  the  happiest!" 

He  finally  succeeded  in  making  Miss  Kirkland 
so  miserable  also  that  she  decided  to  run  away. 
Friends  had  planned  to  spend  the  early  spring 
on  the  Nile  and  were  eager  that  she  should 
accompany  them.  To  her  the  separation  seemed 
to  offer  an  excellent  method  of  discovering 

124 


THE  MESSENGERS 

whether  or  not  Ainsley  was  the  man  she  could 
not  "live  without." 

Ainsley  saw  in  it  only  an  act  of  torture, 
devised  with  devilish  cruelty. 

"What  will  happen  to  me,"  he  announced 
firmly,  "is  that  I  will  plain  die!  As  long  as  I 
can  see  you,  as  long  as  I  have  the  chance  to  try 
and  make  you  understand  that  no  one  can 
possibly  love  you  as  I  do,  and  as  long  as  I  know 
I  am  worrying  you  to  death,  and  no  one  else  is, 
I  still  hope.  I've  no  right  to  hope,  still  I  do. 
And  that  one  little  chance  keeps  me  alive. 
But  Egypt !  If  you  escape  to  Egypt,  what  hold 
will  I  have  on  you?  You  might  as  well  be  in 
the  moon.  Can  you  imagine  me  writing  love- 
letters  to  a  woman  in  the  moon?  Can  I  send 
American  Beauty  roses  to  the  ruins  of  Karnak? 
Here  I  can  telephone  you;  not  that  I  ever  have 
anything  to  say  that  you  want  to  hear,  but 
because  I  want  to  listen  to  your  voice,  and  to 
have  you  ask,  'Oh  !  is  that  you?'  as  though  you 
were  glad  it  was  me.  But  Egypt !  Can  I  call 
up  Egypt  on  the  long-distance?  If  you  leave 
me  now,  you'll  leave  me  forever,  for  I'll  drown 
myself  in  Lone  Lake." 

The  day  she  sailed  away  he  went  to  the 
steamer,  and,  separating  her  from  her  friends 
and  family,  drew  her  to  the  side  of  t  the  ship 
farther  from  the  wharf,  and  which  for  the 

125 


THE  MESSENGERS 

moment,  was  deserted.  Directly  below  a  pile- 
driver,  with  rattling  of  chains  and  shrieks  from 
her  donkey-engine,  was  smashing  great  logs; 
on  the  deck  above,  the  ship's  band  was  braying 
forth  fictitious  gayety,  and  from  every  side 
they  were  assailed  by  the  raucous  whistles  of 
ferry-boats.  The  surroundings  were  not  con 
ducive  to  sentiment,  but  for  the  first  time  Polly 
Kirkland  seemed  a  little  uncertain,  a  little 
frightened;  almost  on  the  verge  of  tears,  almost 
persuaded  to  surrender.  For  the  first  time  she 
laid  her  hand  on  Ainsley's  arm,  and  the  shock 
sent  the  blood  to  his  heart  and  held  him  breath 
less.  When  the  girl  looked  at  him  there  was 
something  in  her  eyes  that  neither  he  nor  any 
other  man  had  ever  seen  there. 

"The  last  thing  I  tell  you,"  she  said,  "the 
thing  I  want  you  to  remember,  is  this,  that, 
though  I  do  not  care — I  want  to  care." 

Ainsley  caught  at  her  hand  and,  to  the  delight 
of  the  crew  of  a  passing  tug-boat,  kissed  it  rap 
turously.  His  face  was  radiant.  The  fact  of 
parting  from  her  had  caused  him  real  suffering, 
had  marked  his  face  with  hard  lines.  Now, 
hope  and  happiness  smoothed  them  away  and 
his  eyes  shone  with  his  love  for  her.  He  was 
trembling,  laughing,  jubilant. 

"And  if  you  should  !"  he  begged.  "  How  soon 
will  I  know?  You  will  cable,"  he  commanded. 

126 


THE  MESSENGERS 

"You  will  cable  'Come,'  and  the  same  hour  I'll 
start  toward  you.  I'll  go  home  now,"  he  cried, 
"and  pack!"' 

The  girl  drew  away.  Already  she  regretted 
the  admission  she  had  made.  In  fairness  and 
in  kindness  to  him  she  tried  to  regain  the 
position  she  had  abandoned. 

"But  a  change  like  that,"  she  pleaded,  "might 
not  come  for  years,  may  never  come!"  To 
recover  herself,  to  make  the  words  she  had 
uttered  seem  less  serious,  she  spoke  quickly 
and  lightly. 

"And  how  could  I  cable  such  a  thing!"  she 
protested.  "It  would  be  far  too  sacred,  too 
precious.  You  should  be  able  to  Jeel  that  the 
change  has  come." 

"I  suppose  I  should,"  assented  Ainsley, 
doubtfully;  "but  it's  a  long  way  across  two 
oceans.  It  would  be  safer  if  you'd  promise  to 
use  the  cable.  Just  one  word:  'Come." 

The  girl  shook  her  head  and  frowned. 

"If  you  can't  feel  that  the  woman  you  love 
loves  you,  even  across  the  world,  you  cannot 
love  her  very  deeply." 

"I  don't  have  to  answer  that!"  said  Ainsley. 

"I  will  send  you  a  sign,"  continued  the  girl, 
hastily;  "a  secret  wireless  message.  It  shall 
be  a  test.  If  you  love  me  you  will  read  it  at 
once.  You  will  know  the  instant  you  see  it 

127 


THE  MESSENGERS 

that  it  comes  from  me.  No  one  else  will  be 
able  to.  read  it;  but  if  you  love  me,  you  will 
know  that  I  love  you." 

Whether  she  spoke  in  metaphor  or  in  fact, 
whether  she  was  "playing  for  time,"  or  whether 
in  her  heart  she  already  intended  to  soon  reward 
him  with  a  message  of  glad  tidings,  Ainsley 
could  not  decide.  And  even  as  he  begged  her 
to  enlighten  him  the  last  whistle  blew,  and  a 
determined  officer  ordered  him  to  the  ship's 
side. 

"Just  as  in  everything  that  is  beautiful,"  he 
whispered  eagerly,  "I  always  see  something  of 
you,  so  now  in  everything  wonderful  I  will  read 
your  message.  But,"  he  persisted,  "how  shall  I 
be  sure?" 

The  last  bag  of  mail  had  shot  into  the  hold, 
the  most  reluctant  of  the  visitors  were  being 
hustled  down  the  last  remaining  gangplank. 
Ainsley's  state  was  desperate. 

"Will  it  be  in  symbol,  or  in  cipher?"  he 
demanded.  "Must  I  read  it  in  the  sky,  or  will 
you  hide  it  in  a  letter,  or — where?  Help  me ! 
Give  me  just  a  hint!" 

The  girl  shook  her  head. 

"You  will  read  it — in  your  heart,"  she  said. 

From  the  end  of  the  wharf  Ainsley  watched 
the  funnels  of  the  ship  disappear  in  the  haze 
of  the  lower  bay.  His  heart  was  sore  and  heavy, 

128 


THE  MESSENGERS 

but  in  it  there  was  still  room  for  righteous  indig 
nation.  "Read  it  in  my  heart!"  he  protested. 
"How  the  devil  can  I  read  it  in  my  heart?  I 
want  to  read  it  printed  in  a  cablegram." 

Because  he  had  always  understood  that  young 
men  in  love  found  solace  for  their  misery  in 
solitude  and  in  communion  with  nature,  he  at 
once  drove  his  car  to  Lone  Lake.  But  his 
misery  was  quite  genuine,  and  the  emptiness 
of  the  brick  house  only  served  to  increase  his 
loneliness.  He  had  built  the  house  for  her, 
though  she  had  never  visited  it,  and  was  as 
sociated  with  it  only  through  the  somewhat 
indefinite  medium  of  the  telephone  box.  But 
in  New  York  they  had  been  much  together. 
And  Ainsley  quickly  decided  that  in  revisiting 
those  places  where  he  had  been  happy  in  her 
company  he  would  derive  from  the  recollection 
some  melancholy  consolation.  He  accordingly 
raced  back  through  the  night  to  the  city;  nor 
did  he  halt  until  he  was  at  the  door  of  her  house. 
She  had  left  it  only  that  morning,  and  though 
it  was  locked  in  darkness,  it  still  spoke  of  her. 
At  least  it  seemed  to  bring  her  nearer  to  him 
than  when  he  was  listening  to  the  frogs  in  the 
lake,  and  crushing  his  way  through  the  pines. 

He  was  not  hungry,  but  he  went  to  a  restau 
rant  where,  when  he  was  host,  she  had  often 
been  the  honored  guest,  and  he  pretended  they 

129 


THE  MESSENGERS 

were  at  supper  together  and  without  a  chaperon. 
Either  the  illusion,  or  the  supper  cheered  him, 
for  he  was  encouraged  to  go  on  to  his  club. 
There  in  the  library,  with  the  aid  of  an  atlas, 
he  worked  out  where,  after  thirteen  hours  of 
moving  at  the  rate  of  twenty-two  knots  an 
hour,  she  should  be  at  that  moment.  Having 
determined  that  fact  to  his  own  satisfaction, 
he  sent  a  wireless  after  the  ship.  It  read:  "It 
is  now  midnight  and  you  are  in  latitude  40° 
north,  longitude  68°  west,  and  I  have  grown 
old  and  gray  waiting  for  the  sign." 

The  next  morning,  and  for  many  days  after, 
he  was  surprised  to  find  that  the  city  went  on 
as  though  she  still  were  in  it.  With  unfeeling 
regularity  the  sun  rose  out  of  the  East  River. 
On  Broadway  electric-light  signs  flashed,  street 
cars  pursued  each  other,  taxicabs  bumped  and 
skidded,  women,  and  even  men,  dared  to  look 
happy,  and  had  apparently  taken  some  thought 
to  their  attire.  They  did  not  respect  even  his 
widowerhood.  They  smiled  upon  him,  and 
asked  him  jocularly  about  the  farm  and  his 
"crops,"  and  what  he  was  doing  in  New  York. 
He  pitied  them,  for  obviously  they  were  ignorant 
of  the  fact  that  in  New  York  there  were  art 
galleries,  shops,  restaurants  of  great  interest, 
owing  to  the  fact  that  Polly  Kirkland  had 
visited  them.  They  did  not  know  that  on 

'30 


THE  MESSENGERS 

upper  Fifth  Avenue  were  houses  of  which  she 
had  deigned  to  approve,  or  which  she  had 
destroyed  with  ridicule,  and  that  to  walk  that 
avenue  and  halt  before  each  of  these  houses 
was  an  inestimable  privilege. 

Each  day,  with  pathetic  vigilance,  Ainsley 
examined  his  heart  for  the  promised  sign.  But 
so  far  from  telling  him  that  the  change  he 
longed  for  had  taken  place,  his  heart  grew 
heavier,  and  as  weeks  went  by  and  no  sign 
appeared,  what  little  confidence  he  had  once 
enjoyed  passed  with  them. 

But  before  hope  entirely  died,  several  false 
alarms  had  thrilled  him  with  happiness.  One 
was  a  cablegram  from  Gibraltar  in  which  the 
only  words  that  were  intelligible  were  "congratu 
late"  and  "engagement."  This  lifted  him  into 
an  ecstasy  of  joy  and  excitement,  until,  on 
having  the  cable  company  repeat  the  message, 
he  learned  it  was  a  request  from  Miss  Kirkland 
to  congratulate  two  mutual  friends  who  had  just 
announced  their  engagement,  and  of  whose 
address  she  was  uncertain.  He  had  hardly 
recovered  from  this  disappointment  than  he 
was  again  thrown  into  a  tumult  by  the  receipt 
of  a  mysterious  package  from  the  custom-house 
containing  an  intaglio  ring.  The  ring  came 
from  Italy,  and  her  ship  had  touched  at  Genoa. 
The  fact  that  it  was  addressed  in  an  unknown 


THE  MESSENGERS 

handwriting  did  not  disconcert  him,  for  he 
argued  that  to  make  the  test  more  difficult  she 
might  disguise  the  handwriting.  He  at  once 
carried  the  intaglio  to  an  expert  at  the  Metro 
politan  Museum,  and  when  he  was  told  that  it 
represented  Cupid  feeding  a  fire  upon  an  altar, 
he  reserved  a  stateroom  on  the  first  steamer 
bound  for  the  Mediterranean.  But  before  his 
ship  sailed,  a  letter,  also  from  Italy,  from  his 
Aunt  Maria,  who  was  spending  the  winter  in 
Rome,  informed  him  that  the  ring  was  a  Christ 
mas  gift  from  her.  In  his  rage  he  unjustly  con 
demned  Aunt  Maria  as  a  meddling  old  busy 
body,  and  gave  her  ring  to  the  cook. 

After  two  months  of  pilgrimages  to  places 
sacred  to  the  memory  of  Polly  Kirkland,  Ainsley 
found  that  feeding  his  love  on  post-mortems  was 
poor  fare,  and,  in  surrender,  determined  to 
evacuate  New  York.  Since  her  departure  he 
had  received  from  Miss  Kirkland  several  let 
ters,  but  they  contained  no  hint  of  a  change  in 
her  affections,  and  search  them  as  he  might,  he 
could  find  no  cipher  or  hidden  message.  They 
were  merely  frank,  friendly  notes  of  travel;  at 
first  filled  with  gossip  of  the  steamer,  and  later 
telling  of  excursions  around  Cairo.  If  they  held 
any  touch  of  feeling  they  seemed  to  show  that 
she  was  sorry  for  him,  and  as  she  could  not  re 
gard  him  in  any  way  more  calculated  to  increase 

132 


THE  MESSENGERS 

his  discouragement,  he,  in  utter  hopelessness, 
retreated  to  the  solitude  of  the  farm.  In  New 
York  he  left  behind  him  two  trunks  filled  with 
such  garments  as  a  man  would  need  on  board  a 
steamer  and  in  the  early  spring  in  Egypt.  They 
had  been  packed  and  in  readiness  since  the  day 
she  sailed  away,  when  she  had  told  him  of  the 
possible  sign.  But  there  had  been  no  sign.  Nor 
did  he  longer  believe  in  one.  So  in  the  baggage- 
room  of  a  hotel  the  trunks  were  abandoned, 
accumulating  layers  of  dust  and  charges  for 
storage. 

At  the  farm  the  snow  still  lay  in  the  crevices 
of  the  rocks  and  beneath  the  branches  of  the 
evergreens,  but  under  the  wet,  dead  leaves 
little  flowers  had  begun  to  show  their  faces. 
The  "backbone  of  the  winter  was  broken" 
and  spring  was  in  the  air.  But  as  Ainsley  was 
certain  that  his  heart  also  was  broken,  the 
signs  of  spring  did  not  console  him.  At  each 
week-end  he  filled  the  house  with  people,  but 
they  found  him  gloomy  and  he  found  them  dull. 
He  liked  better  the  solitude  of  the  midweek 
days.  Then  for  hours  he  would  tramp  through 
the  woods,  pretending  she  was  at  his  side, 
pretending  he  wras  helping  her  across  the  streams 
swollen  with  winter  rains  and  melted  snow. 
On  these  excursions  he  cut  down  trees  that  hid 
a  view  he  thought  she  would  have  liked,  he  cut 

133 


THE   MESSENGERS 

paths  over  which  she  might  have  walked.  Or 
he  sat  idly  in  a  flat-bottomed  scow  in  the  lake 
and  made  a  pretense  of  fishing.  The  loneliness 
of  the  lake  and  the  isolation  of  the  boat  suited 
his  humor.  He  did  not  find  it  true  that  misery 
loves  company.  At  least  to  human  beings  he 
preferred  his  companions  of  Lone  Lake — the 
beaver  building  his  home  among  the  reeds, 
the  kingfisher,  the  blue  heron,  the  wild  fowl 
that  in  their  flight  north  rested  for  an  hour  or  a 
day  upon  the  peaceful  waters.  He  looked  upon 
them  as  his  guests,  and  when  they  spread  their 
wings  and  left  him  again  alone  he  felt  he  had 
been  hardly  used. 

It  was  while  he  was  sunk  in  this  state  of 
melancholy,  and  some  months  after  Miss 
Kirkland  had  sailed  to  Egypt,  that  hope  re 
turned. 

For  a  week-end  he  had  invited  Holden  and 
Lowell,  two  former  classmates,  and  Nelson  Mor 
timer  and  his  bride.  They  were  all  old  friends 
of  their  host  and  well  acquainted  with  the  cause 
of  his  discouragement.  So  they  did  not  ask 
to  be  entertained,  but.  disregarding  him,  amused 
themselves  after  their  own  fashion.  It  was  late 
Friday  afternoon.  The  members  of  the  house- 
party  had  just  returned  from  a  tramp  through 
the  woods  and  had  joined  Ainsley  on  the  ter 
race,  where  he  stood  watching  the  last  rays  of 


THE  MESSENGERS 

the  sun  leave  the  lake  in  darkness.  AH  through 
the  day  there  had  been  sharp  splashes  of  rain 
with  the  clouds  dull  and  forbidding,  but  now 
the  sun  was  sinking  in  a  sky  of  crimson,  and  for 
the  morrow  a  faint  moon  held  out  a  promise 
of  fair  weather. 

Elsie  Mortimer  gave  a  sudden  exclamation, 
and  pointed  to  the  east.  "Look!"  she  said. 

The  men  turned  and  followed  the  direction  of 
her  hand.  In  the  fading  light,  against  a  back 
ground  of  sombre  clouds  that  the  sun  could  not 
reach,  they  saw,  moving  slowly  toward  them 
and  descending  as  they  moved,  six  great  white 
birds.  When  they  were  above  the  tops  of  the 
trees  that  edged  the  lake,  the  birds  halted  and 
hovered  uncertainly,  their  wings  lifting  and 
falling,  their  bodies  slanting  and  sweeping 
slowly,  in  short  circles. 

The  suddenness  of  their  approach,  their 
presence  so  far  inland,  something  unfamiliar 
and  foreign  in  the  way  they  had  winged  their 
progress,  for  a  moment  held  the  group  upon 
the  terrace  silent. 

"They  are  gulls  from  the  Sound,"  said  Lowell. 

"They  are  too  large  for  gulls,"  returned  Mor 
timer.  "They  might  be  wild  geese,  but,"  he 
answered  himself,  in  a  puzzled  voice,  "it  is  too 
late;  and  wild  geese  follow  a  leader." 

As  though  they  feared  the  birds  might  hear 
135 


THE  MESSENGERS 

them  and  take  alarm,  the  men,  unconsciously 
had  spoken  in  low  tones. 

"They  move  as  though  they  were  very  tired/' 
whispered  Elsie  Mortimer. 

"I  think,"  said  Ainsley,  "they  have  lost  thel 
way/' 

But  even  as  he  spoke,  the  birds,  as  though  they 
had  reached  their  goal,  spread  their  wings  to 
the  full  length  and  sank  to  the  shallow  water 
at  the  farthest  margin  of  the  lake. 

As  they  fell  the  sun  struck  full  upon  them, 
turning  their  great  pinions  into  flashing  white 
and  silver. 

"Oh!"  cried  the  girl,  "but  they  are  beau 
tiful!" 

Between  the  house  and  the  lake  there  was  a 
ridge  of  rock  higher  than  the  head  of  a  man,  and 
to  this  Ainsley  and  his  guests  ran  for  cover. 
On  hands  and  knees,  like  hunters  stalking  game, 
they  scrambled  up  the  face  of  the  rock  and 
peered  cautiously  into  the  pond.  Below  them, 
less  than  one  hundred  yards  away,  on  a  tiny 
promontory,  the  six  white  birds  stood  motion- 
leSs.  They  showed  no  sign  of  fear.  They 
could  not  but  know  that  beyond  the  lonely 
circle  of  the  pond  were  the  haunts  of  men. 
From  the  farm  came  the  tinkle  of  a  cow-bell, 
the  bark  of  a  dog,  and  in  the  valley,  six  miles 
distant,  rose  faintly  upon  the  stillness  of  the 

136 


"I  think,"  said  Ainsley,  "they  have  lost  their  way." 


THE  MESSENGERS 

sunset  hour  the  rumble  of  a  passing  train. 
But  if  these  sounds  carried,  the  birds  gave  no 
heed.  In  each  drooping  head  and  dragging 
wing,  in  the  forward  stoop  of  each  white  body, 
weighing  heavily  on  the  slim,  black  legs,  was 
written  utter  weariness,  abject  fatigue.  To 
each  even  to  lower  his  bill  and  sip  from  the  cool 
waters  was  a  supreme  effort.  And  in  their 
exhaustion  so  complete  was  something  humanly 
helpless  and  pathetic. 

To  Ainsley  the  mysterious  visitors  made  a 
direct  appeal.  He  felt  as  though  they  had 
thrown  themselves  upon  his  hospitality.  That 
they  showed  such  confidence  that  the  sanctuary 
would  be  kept  sacred  touched  him.  And  while 
his  friends  spoke  eager  y,  he  remained  silent, 
watching  the  drooping,  ghost-like  figures,  his 
eyes  filled  with  pity. 

"I  have  seen  birds  like  those  in  Florida," 
Mortimer  was  whispering,  "but  they  were  not 
migratory  birds." 

"And  I've  seen  white  cranes  in  the  Adiron- 
dacks,"  said  Lowell,  "but  never  six  at  one 
time." 

"They're  like  no  bird  7  ever  saw  out  of  a 
zoo,"  declared  Elsie  Mortimer.  "Maybe  they 
are  from  the  Zoo?  Maybe  they  escaped  from 
the  Bronx?" 

"The  Bronx  is  too  near,"  objected  LowelL 


THE  MESSENGERS 

"These  birds  have  come  a  great  distance.  They 
move  as  though  they  had  been  flying  for  many 
days." 

As  though  the  absurdity  of  his  own  thought 
amused  him,  Mortimer  laughed  softly. 

"I'll  tell  you  what  they  do  look  like,"  he  said. 
"They  look  like  that  bird  you  see  on  the  Nile, 
the  sacred  Ibis,  they ' 

Something  between  a  gasp  and  a  cry  startled 
him  into  silence.  He  found  his  host  staring 
wildly,  his  lips  parted,  his  eyes  open  wide. 

"Where?"  demanded  Ainsley.  "Where  did 
you  say?"  His  voice  was  so  hoarse,  so  strange, 
that  they  all  turned  and  looked. 

"On  the  Nile,"  repeated  Mortimer.  "All 
over  Egypt.  Why?" 

Ainsley  made  no  answer.  Unclasping  his 
hold,  he  suddenly  slid  down  the  face  of  the  rock, 
and  with  a  bump  lit  on  his  hands  and  knees. 
With  one  bound  he  had  cleared  a  flower-bed. 
In  two  more  he  had  mounted  the  steps  to  the 
terrace,  and  in  another  instant  had  disappeared 
into  the  house. 

"What  happened  to  him?"  demanded  Elsie 
Mortimer. 

"He's  gone  to  get  a  gun!"  exclaimed  Morti 
mer.  "But  he  mustn't!  How  can  he  think 
of  shooting  them?"  he  cried  indignantly.  "I'll 
put  a  stop  to  that!" 


THE  MESSENGERS 

In  the  hall  he  found  Ainsley  surrounded  by  a 
group  of  startled  servants. 

"You  get  that  car  at  the  door  in  five  min 
utes!"  he  was  shouting,  "and  you  telephone 
the  hotel  to  have  my  trunks  out  of  the  cellar 
and  on  board  the  Kron  Prinz  Albert  by  mid 
night.  Then  you  telephone  Hoboken  that  I 
want  a  cabin,  and  if  they  haven't  got  a  cabin  I 
want  the  captain's.  And  tell  them  anyway 
I'm  coming  on  board  to-night,  and  I'm  going 
with  them  if  I  have  to  sleep  on  deck.  And 
you,"  he  cried,  turning  to  Mortimer,  "take  a 
shotgun  and  guard  that  lake,  and  if  anybody 
tries  to  molest  those  birds — shoot  him  !  They've 
come  from  Egypt !  From  Polly  Kirkland !  She 
sent  them !  They're  a  sign !" 

"Are  you  going  mad?"  cried  Mortimer. 

"No !"  roared  Ainsley.  "  I'm  going  to  Egypt, 
and  I'm  going  now!" 

Polly  Kirkland  and  her  friends  were  travelling 
slowly  up  the  Nile,  and  had  reached  Luxor. 
A  few  hundred  yards  below  the  village  their 
dahabiyeh  was  moored  to  the  bank,  and,  on 
the  deck,  Miss  Kirkland  was  watching  a  scarlet 
sun  sink  behind  two  palm-trees.  By  the  grace 
of  that  special  Providence  that  cares  for  drunken 
men,  citizens  of  the  United  States,  and  lovers, 
her  friends  were  on  shore,  and  she  was  alone. 
For  this  she  was  grateful,  for  her  thoughts  were 

139 


THE  MESSENGERS 

of  a  melancholy  and  tender  nature  and  she 
had  no  wish  for  any  companion  save  one.  In 
consequence,  when  a  steam-launch,  approaching 
at  full  speed  with  the  rattle  of  a  quick-firing 
gun,  broke  upon  her  meditations,  she  was 
distinctly  annoyed. 

But  when,  with  much  ringing  of  bells  and 
shouting  of  orders,  the  steam-launch  rammed 
the  paint  off  her  dahabiyeh,  and  a  young  man 
flung  himself  over  the  rail  and  ran  toward  her, 
her  annoyance  passed,  and  with  a  sigh  she  sank 
into  his  outstretched,  eager  arms. 

Half  an  hour  later  Ainsley  laughed  proudly 
and  happily. 

"Well!"  he  exclaimed,  "you  can  never  say  I 
kept  you  waiting.  I  didn't  lose  much  time,  did 
I  ?  Ten  minutes  after  I  got  your  C.  Q.  D.  signal 
I  was  going  down  the  Boston  Post  Road  at 
seventy  miles  an  hour." 

"My  what?"  said  the  girl. 

"The  sign!"  explained  Ainsley.  "The  sign 
you  were  to  send  me  to  tell  me" — he  bent  over 
her  hands  and  added  gently — "that  you  cared 
for  me." 

"Oh,  I  remember,"  laughed  Polly  Kirkland. 
"  I  was  to  send  you  a  sign,  wasn't  I  ?  You  were 
to  'read  it  in  your  heart,' "  she  quoted. 

"And  I  did,"  returned  Ainsley  complacently. 
"There  were  several  false  alarms,  and  I'd  almost 

140 


THE  MESSENGERS 

lost  hope,  but  when  the  messengers  came  I  knew 
them." 

With  puzzled  eyes  the  girl  frowned  and  raised 
her  head. 

"Messengers?"  she  repeated.  "I  sent  no 
message.  Of  course,"  she  went  on,  "when  I 
said  you  would  'read  it  in  your  heart*  I  meant 
that  if  you  really  loved  me  you  would  not  wait 
for  a  sign,  but  you  would  just  come!"  She 
sighed  proudly  and  contentedly.  "And  you 
came.  You  understood  that,  didn't  you?"  she 
asked  anxiously. 

For  an  instant  Ainsley  stared  blankly,  and 
then  to  hide  his  guilty  countenance  drew  her 
toward  him  and  kissed  her. 

"Of  course,"  he  stammered— "of  course  I 
understood.  That  was  why  I  came.  I  just 
couldn't  stand  it  any  longer." 

Breathing  heavily  at  the  thought  of  the 
blunder  he  had  so  narrowly  avoided,  Ainsley 
turned  his  head  toward  the  great  red  disk  that 
was  disappearing  into  the  sands  of  the  desert. 
He  was  so  long  silent  that  the  girl  lifted  her 
eyes,  and  found  that  already  he  had  forgotten 
her  presence  and,  transfixed,  was  staring  at  the 
sky.  On  his  face  was  bewilderment  and  wonder 
and  a  touch  of  awe.  The  girl  followed  the 
direction  of  his  eyes,  and  in  the  swiftly  gather 
ing  darkness  saw  coming  slowly  toward  them, 

141 


THE  MESSENGERS 

and  descending  as  they  came,  six  great  white 
birds. 

They  moved  with  the  last  effort  of  complete 
exhaustion.  In  the  drooping  head  and  dragging 
wings  of  each  was  written  utter  weariness,  abject 
fatigue.  For  a  moment  they  hovered  over  the 
dahabiyeh  and  above  the  two  young  lovers,  and 
then,  like  tired  travellers  who  had  reached  their 
journey's  end,  they  spread  their  wings  and  sank 
to  the  muddy  waters  of  the  Nile  and  into  the 
enveloping  night. 

"Some  day,"  said  Ainsley,  "I  have  a  con 
fession  to  make  to  you." 


142 


A  WASTED  DAY 

WHEN  its  turn  came,  the  private  secretary, 
somewhat  apologetically,  laid  the  letter  in  front 
of  the  Wisest  Man  in  Wall  Street. 

"From  Mrs.  Austin,  probation  officer,  Court 
of  General  Sessions,"  he  explained.  "Wants  a 
letter  about  Spear.  He's  been  convicted  of 
theft.  Comes  up  for  sentence  Tuesday." 

"Spear?"  repeated  Arnold  Thorndike. 

"  Young  fellow,  stenographer,  used  to  do 
your  letters  last  summer  going  in  and  out  on 
the  train." 

The  great  man  nodded.  "  I  remember.  What 
about  him?" 

The  habitual  gloom  of  the  private  secretary 
was  lightened  by  a  grin. 

"Went  on  the  loose;  had  with  him  about  five 
hundred  dollars  belonging  to  the  firm;  he's  with 
Isaacs  &  Sons  now,  shoe  people  on  Sixth  Avenue. 
Met  a  woman,  and  woke  up  without  the  money. 
The  next  morning  he  offered  to  make  good,  but 
Isaacs  called  in  a  policeman.  When  they  looked 
into  it,  they  found  the  boy  had  been  drunk. 
They  tried  to  withdraw  the  charge,  but  he'd 
been  committed.  Now,  the  probation  officer  is 

143 


A  WASTED  DAY 

trying  to  get  the  judge  to  suspend  sentence. 
A  letter  from  you,  sir,  would — 

It  was  evident  the  mind  of  the  great  man  was 
elsewhere.  Young  men  who,  drunk  or  sober, 
spent  the  firm's  money  on  women  who  disap 
peared  before  sunrise  did  not  appeal  to  him. 
Another  letter  submitted  that  morning  had  come 
from  his  art  agent  in  Europe.  In  Florence  he 
had  discovered  the  Correggio  he  had  been  sent 
to  find.  It  was  undoubtedly  genuine,  and  he 
asked  to  be  instructed  by  cable.  The  price  was 
forty  thousand  dollars.  With  one  eye  closed, 
and  the  other  keenly  regarding  the  inkstand, 
Mr.  Thorndike  decided  to  pay  the  price;  and 
with  the  facility  of  long  practise  dismissed  the 
Correggio,  and  snapped  his  mind  back  to  the 
present. 

"Spear  had  a  letter  from  us  when  he  left, 
didn't  he?"  he  asked.  "What  he  has  developed 
into,  since  he  left  us — "  he  shrugged  his  shoul 
ders.  The  secretary  withdrew  the  letter,  and 
slipped  another  in  its  place. 

"Homer  Firth,  the  landscape  man,"  he 
chanted,  "wants  permission  to  use  blue  flint  on 
the  new  road,  with  turf  gutters,  and  to  plant 
silver  firs  each  side.  Says  it  will  run  to  about 
five  thousand  dollars  a  mile." 

"No !"  protested  the  great  man  firmly,  "blue 
flint  makes  a  country  place  look  like  a  ceme- 

144 


A  WASTED  DAY 

tery.  Mine  looks  too  much  like  a  cemetery 
now.  Landscape  gardeners  !"  he  exclaimed  im 
patiently.  "  Their  only  idea  is  to  insult  nature. 
The  place  was  better  the  day  I  bought  it,  when 
it  was  running  wild;  you  could  pick  flowers  all 
the  way  to  the  gates."  Pleased  that  it  should 
have  recurred  to  him,  the  great  man  smiled. 
"Why,  Spear,"  he  exclaimed,  "always  took  in 
a  bunch  of  them  for  his  mother.  Don't  you 
remember,  we  used  to  see  him  before  breakfast 
wandering  around  the  grounds  picking  flowers?" 
Mr.  Thorndike  nodded  briskly.  "I  like  his 
taking  flowers  to  his  mother." 

"He  said  it  was  to  his  mother,"  suggested  the 
secretary  gloomily. 

"Well,  he  picked  the  flowers,  anyway," 
laughed  Mr.  Thorndike.  "He  didn't  pick  our 
pockets.  And  he  had  the  run  of  the  house  in 
those  days.  As  far  as  we  know,"  he  dictated, 
"he  was  satisfactory.  Don't  say  more  than 
that." 

The  secretary  scribbled  a  mark  with  his 
pencil.  "And  the  landscape  man?" 

"Tell  him,"  commanded  Thorndike,  "I  want 
a  wood  road,  suitable  to  a  farm;  and  to  let  the* 
trees  grow  where  God  planted  them." 

As  his  car  slid  downtown  on  Tuesday  morning 
the  mind  of  Arnold  Thorndike  was  occupied 
with  such  details  of  daily  routine  as  the  purchase 

145 


A  WASTED  DAY 

of  a  railroad,  the  Japanese  loan,  the  new  wing 
to  his  art  gallery,  and  an  attack  that  morning, 
in  his  own  newspaper,  upon  his  pet  trust.  But 
his  busy  mind  was  not  too  occupied  to  return 
the  salutes  of  the  traffic  policemen  who  cleared 
the  way  for  him.  Or,  by  some  genius  of  mem 
ory,  to  recall  the  fact  that  it  was  on  this  morning 
young  Spear  was  to  be  sentenced  for  theft.  It 
was  a  charming  morning.  The  spring  was  at 
full  tide,  and  the  air  was  sweet  and  clean.  Mr. 
Thorndike  considered  whimsically  that  to  send 
a  man  to  jail  with  the  memory  of  such  a  morn 
ing  clinging  to  him  was  adding  a  year  to  his 
sentence.  He  regretted  he  had  not  given  the 
probation  officer  a  stronger  letter.  He  remem 
bered  the  young  man  now,  and  favorably.  A 
shy,  silent  youth,  deft  in  work,  and  at  other 
times  conscious  and  embarrassed.  But  that, 
'  on  the  part  of  a  stenographer,  in  the  presence 
of  the  Wisest  Man  in  Wall  Street,  was  not 
unnatural.  On  occasions,  Mr.  Thorndike  had 
put  even  royalty — frayed,  impecunious  royalty, 
on  the  lookout  for  a  loan — at  its  ease. 

The  hood  of  the  car  was  down,  and  the  taste 
of  the  air,  warmed  by  the  sun,  was  grateful. 
It  wras  at  this  time,  a  year  before,  that  young 
Spear  picked  the  spring  flowers  to  take  to  his 
mother.  A  year  from  now  where  would  young 
Spear  be? 

146 


A  WASTED  DAY 

It  was  characteristic  of  the  great  man  to  act 
quickly,  so  quickly  that  his  friends  declared  he 
was  a  slave  to  impulse.  It  was  these  same  im 
pulses,  leading  so  invariably  to  success,  that 
made  his  enemies  call  him  the  Wisest  Man. 
He  leaned  forward  and  touched  the  chauffeur's 
shoulder.  "Stop  at  the  Court  of  General  Ses 
sions,"  he  commanded.  What  he  proposed  to 
do  would  take  but  a  few  minutes.  A  word,  a 
personal  word  from  him  to  the  district  attorney, 
or  the  judge,  would  be  enough.  He  recalled 
that  a  Sunday  Special  had  once  calculated  that 
the  working  time  of  Arnold  Thorndike  brought 
him  in  two  hundred  dollars  a  minute.  At  that 
rate,  keeping  Spear  out  of  prison  would  cost  a 
thousand  dollars. 

Out  of  the  sunshine  Mr.  Thorndike  stepped 
into  the  gloom  of  an  echoing  rotunda,  shut  in 
on  every  side,  hung  by  balconies,  lit,  many 
stories  overhead,  by  a  dirty  skylight.  The 
place  was  damp,  the  air  acrid  with  the  smell  of 
stale  tobacco  juice,  and  foul  with  the  presence 
of  many  unwashed  humans.  A  policeman, 
chewing  stolidly,  nodded  toward  an  elevator 
shaft,  and  other  policemen  nodded  him  further 
on  to  the  office  of  the  district  attorney.  There 
Arnold  Thorndike  breathed  more  freely.  He 
was  again  among  his  own  people.  He  could 

147 


A  WASTED  DAY 

not  help  but  appreciate  the  dramatic  qualities 
of  the  situation;  that  the  richest  man  in  Wall 
Street  should  appear  in  person  to  plead  for  a 
humble  and  weaker  brother.  He  knew  he  could 
not  escape  recognition,  his  face  was  too  well 
known,  but,  he  trusted,  for  the  sake  of  Spear, 
the  reporters  would  make  no  display  of  his 
visit.  With  a  deprecatory  laugh,  he  explained 
why  he  had  come. .  But  the  outburst  of  appro 
bation  he  had  anticipated  did  not  follow. 

The  district  attorney  ran  his  finger  briskly 
down  a  printed  card.  "Henry  Spear,"  he 
exclaimed,  "that's  your  man.  Part  Three, 
Judge  Fallon.  Andrews  is  in  that  court."  He 
walked  to  the  door  of  his  private  office.  "An 
drews!"  he  called. 

He  introduced  an  alert,  broad-shouldered 
young  man  of  years  of  much  indiscretion  and 
with  a  charming  and  inconsequent  manner. 

"Mr.  Thorndike  is  interested  in  Henry  Spear, 
coming  up  for  sentence  in  Part  Three  this 
morning.  Wants  to  speak  for  him.  Take  him 
over  with  you." 

The  district  attorney  shook  hands  quickly, 
and  retreated  to  his  private  office.  Mr.  Andrews 
took  out  a  cigarette  and,  as  he  crossed  the  floor, 
lit  it. 

"Come  with  me,"  he  commanded.  Some 
what  puzzled,  slightly  annoyed,  but  enjoying 

148 


A  WASTED  DAY 

withal  the  novelty  of  the  environment  and  the 
curtness  of  his  reception,  Mr.  Thorndike  fol 
lowed.  He  decided  that,  in  his  ignorance,  he 
had  wasted  his  own  time  and  that  of  the  pros 
ecuting  attorney.  He  should  at  once  have  sent 
in  his  card  to  the  judge.  As  he  understood 
it,  Mr.  Andrews  was  now  conducting  him  to 
that  dignitary,  and,  in  a  moment,  he  would  be 
free  to  return  to  his  own  affairs,  which  were  the 
affairs  of  two  continents.  But  Mr.  Andrews 
led  him  to  an  office,  bare  and  small,  and  offered 
him  a  chair,  and  handed  him  a  morning  news 
paper.  There  were  people  waiting  in  the  room; 
strange  people,  only  like  those  Mr.  Thorndike 
had  seen  on  ferry-boats.  They  leaned  forward 
toward  young  Mr.  Andrews,  fawning,  their  eyes 
wide  with  apprehension. 

Mr.  Thorndike  refused  the  newspaper.  "I 
thought  I  was  going  to  see  the  judge,"  he 
suggested. 

"Court  doesn't  open  for  a  few  minutes  yet," 
said  the  assistant  district  attorney.  "Judge  is 
always  late,  anyway." 

Mr.  Thorndike  suppressed  an  exclamation. 
He  wanted  to  protest,  but  his  clear  rnind  showed 
him  that  there  was  nothing  against  which,  with 
reason,  he  could  protest.  He  could  not  com 
plain  because  these  people  were  not  apparently 
aware  of  the  sacrifice  he  was  making.  He  had 

149 


A  WASTED  DAY 

come  among  them  to  perform  a  kindly  act. 
He  recognized  that  he  must  not  stultify  it  by  a 
show  of  irritation.  He  had  precipitated  him 
self  into  a  game  of  which  he  did  not  know  the 
rules.  That  was  all.  Next  time  he  would  know 
better.  Next  time  he  would  send  a  clerk.  But 
he  was  not  without  a  sense  of  humor,  and  the 
situation  as  it  now  was  forced  upon  him  struck 
him  as  amusing.  He  laughed  good-naturedly 
and  reached  for  the  desk  telephone. 

"May  I  use  this?"  he  asked.  He  spoke  to 
the  Wall  Street  office.  He  explained  he  would 
be  a  few  minutes  late.  He  directed  what  should 
be  done  if  the  market  opened  in  a  certain  way. 
He  gave  rapid  orders  on  many  different  matters, 
asked  to  have  read  to  him  a  cablegram  he 
expected  from  Petersburg,  and  one  from  Vienna. 

"They  answer  each  other,"  was  his  final 
instruction.  "It  looks  like  peace." 

Mr.  Andrews  with  genial  patience  had  re 
mained  silent.  Now  he  turned  upon  his  visitors. 
A  Levantine,  burly,  unshaven,  and  soiled, 
towered  truculently  above  him.  Young  Mr. 
Andrews  with  his  swivel  chair  tilted  back,  his 
hands  clasped  behind  his  head,  his  cigarette 
hanging  from  his  lips,  regarded  the  man  dis 
passionately. 

:<  You  gotta  hell  of  a  nerve  to  come  to  see  me," 
he  commented  cheerfully.  To  Mr.  Thorndike, 

150 


A  WASTED  DAY 

the  form  of  greeting  was  novel.  So  greatly  did 
it  differ  from  the  procedure  of  his  own  office, 
that  he  listened  with  interest. 

"Was  it  you,"  demanded  young  Andrews,  in  a 
puzzled  tone,  "or  your  brother  who  tried  to 
knife  me?"  Mr.  Thorndike,  unaccustomed  to 
cross  the  pavement  to  his  office  unless  escorted 
by  bank  messengers  and  plain-clothes  men, 
felt  the  room  growing  rapidly  smaller;  the  figure 
of  the  truculent  Greek  loomed  to  heroic  pro 
portions.  The  hand  of  the  banker  went  vaguely 
to  his  chin,  and  from  there  fell  to  his  pearl  pin, 
which  he  hastily  covered. 

"Get  out!"  said  young  Andrews,  "and  don't 
show  your  face  here— 

The  door  slammed  upon  the  flying  Greek. 
Young  Andrews  swung  his  swivel  chair  so  that, 
over  his  shoulder,  he  could  see  Mr.  Thorndike. 
"I  don't  like  his  face,"  he  explained. 

A  kindly  eyed,  sad  woman  with  a  basket  on 
her  knee  smiled  upon  Andrews  with  the  famili 
arity  of  an  old  acquaintance. 

"Is  that  woman  going  to  get  a  divorce  from 
my  son,"  she  asked,  "now  that  he's  in  trouble?" 

"Now  that  he's  in  Sing  Sing?"  corrected  Mr. 
Andrews.  "  I  hope  so !  She  deserves  it.  That 
son  of  yours,  Mrs.  Bernard,"  he  declared  em 
phatically,  "is  no  good!" 

The  brutality  shocked  Mr.  Thorndike.  For 
151 


A  WASTED  DAY 

the  woman  he  felt  a  thrill  of  sympathy,  but  at 
once  saw  that  it  was  superfluous.  From  the 
secure  and  lofty  heights  of  motherhood,  Mrs. 
Bernard  smiled  down  upon  the  assistant  district 
attorney  as  upon  a  naughty  child.  She  did 
not  even  deign  a  protest.  She  continued  merely 
to  smile.  The  smile  reminded  Thorndike  of  the 
smile  on  the  face  of  a  mother  in  a  painting  by 
Murillo  he  had  lately  presented  to  the  chapel 
in  the  college  he  had  given  to  his  native 
town. 

"That  son  of  yours,"  repeated  young  Andrews, 
"is  a  leech.  He's  robbed  you,  robbed  his  wife. 
Best  thing  I  ever  did  for  you  was  to  send  him  up 
the  river." 

The  mother  smiled  upon  him  beseechingly. 

"Could  you  give  me  a  pass?"  she  said. 

Young  Andrews  flung  up  his  hands  and 
appealed  to  Thorndike. 

"Isn't  that  just  like  a  mother?"  he  protested. 
"That  son  of  hers  has  broken  her  heart,  tramped 
on  her,  cheated  her;  hasn't  left  her  a  cent;  and 
she  comes  to  me  for  a  pass,  so  she  can  kiss  him 
through  the  bars !  And  I'll  bet  she's  got  a  cake 
for  him  in  that  basket!" 

The  mother  laughed  happily;  she  knew  now 
she  would  get  the  pass. 

"Mothers,"  explained  Mr.  Andrews,  from  the 
depth  of  his  wisdom,  "are  all  like  that;  your 


A  WASTED  DAY 

mother,  my  mother.  If  you  went  to  jail,  your 
mother  would  be  just  like  that/' 

Mr.  Thorndike  bowed  his  head  politely.  He 
had  never  considered  going  to  jail,  or  whether, 
if  he  did,  his  mother  would  bring  him  cake  in  a 
basket.  Apparently  there  were  many  aspects 
and  accidents  of  life  not  included  in  his  ex 
perience. 

Young  Andrews  sprang  to  his  feet,  and,  with 
the  force  of  a  hose  flushing  a  gutter,  swept  his 
soiled  visitors  into  the  hall. 

"Come  on,"  he  called  to  the  Wisest  Man,  "the 
court  is  open." 

In  the  corridors  were  many  people,  and  with 
his  eyes  on  the  broad  shoulders  of  the  assistant 
district  attorney,  Thorndike  pushed  his  way 
through  them.  The  people  who  blocked  his 
progress  were  of  the  class  unknown  to  him. 
Their  looks  were  anxious,  furtive,  miserable. 
They  stood  in  little  groups,  listening  eagerly  to 
a  sharp-faced  lawyer,  or,  in  sullen  despair,  eying 
each  other.  At  a  door  a  tipstaff  laid  his  hand 
roughly  on  the  arm  of  Mr.  Thorndike. 

"That's  all  right,  Joe,"  called  young  Mr.  An 
drews,  "he's  with  me."  They  entered  the  court 
and  passed  down  an  aisle  to  a  railed  enclosure 
in  which  were  high  oak  chairs.  Again,  in  his 
effort  to  follow,  Mr.  Thorndike  was  halted,  but 

153 


A  WASTED  DAY 

the  first  tipstaff  came  to  his  rescue.  "AH 
right,"  he  signalled,  "he's  with  Mr.  Andrews." 

Mr.  Andrews  pointed  to  one  of  the  oak  chairs. 
"You  sit  there,"  he  commanded,  "it's  reserved 
for  members  of  the  bar,  but  it's  all  right.  You're 
with  me." 

Distinctly  annoyed,  slightly  bewildered,  the 
banker  sank  between  the  arms  of  a  chair.  He 
felt  he  had  lost  his  individuality.  Andrews  had 
become  his  sponsor.  Because  of  Andrews  he 
was  tolerated.  Because  Andrews  had  a  pull  he 
was  permitted  to  sit  as  an  equal  among  police- 
court  lawyers.  No  longer  was  he  Arnold  Thorn- 
dike.  He  was  merely  the  man  "with  Mr. 
Andrews." 

Then  even  Andrews  abandoned  him.  "The 
judge'II  be  here  in  a  minute,  now,"  said  the 
assistant  district  attorney,  and  went  inside  a 
railed  enclosure  in  front  of  the  judge's  bench. 
There  he  greeted  another  assistant  district 
attorney  whose  years  were  those  of  even  greater 
indiscretion  than  the  years  of  Mr.  Andrews. 
Seated  on  the  rail,  with  their  hands  in  their 
pockets  and  their  backs  turned  to  Mr.  Thorn- 
dike,  they  laughed  and  talked  together.  The 
subject  of  their  discourse  was  one  Mike  Donlin, 
as  he  appeared  in  vaudeville. 

To  Mr.  Thorndike  it  was  evident  that  young 
Andrews  had  entirely  forgotten  him.  He  arose, 

154 


A  WASTED  DAY 

and  touched  his  sleeve.  With  infinite  sarcasm 
Mr.  Thorndike  began:  "My  engagements  are 
not  pressing,  but — 

A  court  attendant  beat  with  his  palm  upon  the 
rail. 

"Sit  down!"  whispered  Andrews.  "The 
judge  is  coming." 

Mr.  Thorndike  sat  down. 

The  court  attendant  droned  loudly  words  Mr. 
Thorndike  could  not  distinguish.  There  was  a 
rustle  of  silk,  and  from  a  door  behind  him  the 
judge  stalked  past.  He  was  a  young  man,  the 
type  of  the  Tammany  politician.  On  his  shrewd, 
alert,  Irish- American  features  was  an  expression 
of  unnatural  gloom.  With  a  smile  Mr.  Thorn- 
dike  observed  that  it  was  as  little  suited  to  the 
countenance  of  the  young  judge  as  was  the  robe 
to  his  shoulders.  Mr.  Thorndike  was  still 
smiling  when  young  Andrews  leaned  over  the 
rail. 

"  Stand  up ! "  he  hissed.  Mr.  Thorndike  stood 
up. 

After  the  court  attendant  had  uttered  more 
unintelligible  words,  every  one  sat  down;  and 
the  financier  again  moved  hurriedly  to  the 
rail. 

"I  would  like  to  speak  to  him  now  before  he 
begins,"  he  whispered.  "  I  can't  wait." 

Mr.   Andrews    stared    in  amazement.     The 
155 


A  WASTED  DAY 

banker  had  not  believed  the  young  man  could 
look  so  serious. 

"Speak  to  him,  now!"  exclaimed  the  district 
attorney.     "You've  got  to  wait  till  your  man 
comes  up.     If  you  speak  to  the  judge,  now — ' 
The  voice  of  Andrews  faded  away  in  horror. 

Not  knowing  in  what  way  he  had  offended, 
but  convinced  that  it  was  only  by  the  grace  of 
Andrews  he  had  escaped  a  dungeon,  Mr.  Thorn- 
dike  retreated  to  his  arm-chair. 

The  clock  on  the  wall  showed  him  that,  al 
ready,  he  had  given  to  young  Spear  one  hour  and 
a  quarter.  The  idea  was  preposterous.  No  one 
better  than  himself  knew  what  his  time  was 
really  worth.  In  half  an  hour  there  was  a 
board  meeting;  later,  he  was  to  hold  a  post 
mortem  on  a  railroad;  at  every  moment  ques 
tions  were  being  asked  by  telegraph,  by  cable, 
questions  that  involved  the  credit  of  individuals, 
of  firms,  of  even  the  country.  And  the  one  man 
who  could  answer  them  was  risking  untold  sums 
only  that  he  might  say  a  good  word  for  an  idle 
apprentice.  Inside  the  railed  enclosure  a  lawyer 
was  reading  a  typewritten  speech.  He  assured 
his  honor  that  he  must  have  more  time  to  pre 
pare  his  case.  It  was  one  of  immense  im 
portance.  The  name  of  a  most  respectable 
business  house  was  involved,  and  a  sum  of  no 


A  WASTED  DAY 

less  than  nine  hundred  dollars.  Nine  hundred 
dollars!  The  contrast  struck  Mr.  Thorndike's 
sense  of  humor  full  in  the  centre.  Unknowingly, 
he  laughed,  and  found  himself  as  conspicuous 
as  though  he  had  appeared  suddenly  in  his 
night-clothes.  The  tipstaffs  beat  upon  the  rail, 
the  lawyer  he  had  interrupted  uttered  an  in 
dignant  exclamation,  Andrews  came  hurriedly 
toward  him,  and  the  young  judge  slowly  turned 
his  head. 

"Those  persons,"  he  said,  "who  cannot  respect 
the  dignity  of  this  court  will  leave  it."  As  he 
spoke,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  those  of  Mr.  Thorn- 
dike,  the  latter  saw  that  the  young  judge  had 
suddenly  recognized  him.  But  the  fact  of  his 
identity  did  not  cause  the  frown  to  relax  or  the 
rebuke  to  halt  unuttered.  In  even,  icy  tones 
the  judge  continued:  "And  it  is  well  thej 
should  remember  that  the  law  is  no  respecter 
of  persons  and  that  the  dignity  of  this  court 
will  be  enforced,  no  matter  who  the  offender 
may  happen  to  be." 

Andrews  slipped  into  the  chair  beside  Mr. 
Thorndike,  and  grinned  sympathetically. 

"Sorry!"  he  whispered.  "Should  have 
warned  you.  We  won't  be  long  now,"  he 
added  encouragingly.  "As  soon  as  this  fellow 
finishes  his  argument,  the  judge 'II  take  up  the 
sentences.  Your  man  seems  to  have  other 

157 


A  WASTED  DAY 

friends;  Isaacs  &  Sons  are  here,  and  the  type 
writer  firm  who  taught  him;  but  what  you  say 
will  help  most.  It  won't  be  more  than  a  couple 
of  hours  now." 

"A  couple  of  hours!"  Mr.  Thorndike  raged 
inwardly.  A  couple  of  hours  in  this  place  where 
he  had  been  publicly  humiliated.  He  smiled,  a 
thin,  shark-like  smile.  Those  who  made  it  their 
business  to  study  his  expressions,  on  seeing  it, 
would  have  fled.  Young  Andrews,  not  being 
acquainted  with  the  moods  of  the  great  man, 
added  cheerfully:  "By  one  o'clock,  any 
way." 

Mr.  Thorndike  began  grimly  to  pull  on  his 
gloves.  For  all  he  cared  now  young  Spear  could 
go  hang.  Andrews  nudged  his  elbow. 

"See  that  old  lady  in  the  front  row?"  he  whis 
pered.  "That's  Mrs.  Spear.  What  did  I  tell 
you;  mothers  are  all  alike.  She's  not  taken  her 
eyes  off  you  since  court  opened.  She  knows 
you're  her  one  best  bet." 

Impatiently  Mr.  Thorndike  raised  his  head. 
He  saw  a  little,  white-haired  woman  who  stared 
at  him.  In  her  eyes  was  the  same  look  he  had 
seen  hi  the  eyes  of  men  who,  at  times  of  panic, 
fled  to  him,  beseeching,  entreating,  forcing  upon 
him  what  was  left  of  the  wreck  of  their  fortunes, 
if  only  he  would  save  their  honor. 

"And  here  come  the  prisoners,"  Andrews  whis- 


A  WASTED  DAY 

pered.  "See  Spear?  Third  man  from  the  last." 
A  long  line,  guarded  in  front  and  rear,  shuffled 
into  the  court-room,  and,  as  ordered,  ranged 
themselves  against  the  wall.  Among  them  were 
old  men  and  young  boys,  well  dressed,  clever- 
looking  rascals,  collarless  tramps,  fierce-eyed 
aliens,  smooth-shaven,  thin-lipped  Broadway- 
ards — and  Spear. 

Spear,  his  head  hanging,  with  lips  white  and 
cheeks  ashen,  and  his  eyes  heavy  with  shame. 

Mr.  Thorndike  had  risen,  and,  in  farewell, 
was  holding  out  his  hand  to  Andrews.  He 
turned,  and  across  the  court-room  the  eyes  of 
the  financier  and  the  stenographer  met.  At  the 
sight  of  the  great  man,  Spear  flushed  crimson, 
and  then  his  look  of  despair  slowly  disappeared; 
and  into  his  eyes  there  came  incredulously  hope 
and  gratitude.  He  turned  his  head  suddenly 
to  the  wall. 

Mr.  Thorndike  stood  irresolute,  and  then  sank 
back  into  his  chair. 

The  first  man  in  the  line  was  already  at  the 
railing,  and  the  questions  put  to  him  by  the 
judge  were  being  repeated  to  him  by  the  other 
assistant  district  attorney  and  a  court  attend 
ant.  His  muttered  answers  were  in  turn  re 
peated  to  the  judge. 

"Says  he's  married,  naturalized  citizen,  Lu 
theran  Church,  die-cutter  by  profession." 

159 


A  WASTED  DAY 

The  probation  officer,  her  hands  filled  with 
papers,  bustled  forward  and  whispered. 

"Mrs.  Austin  says,"  continued  the  district 
attorney,  "she's  looked  into  this  case,  and  asks 
to  have  the  man  turned  over  to  her.  He  has  a 
wife  and  three  children;  has  supported  them 
for  five  years." 

"Is  the  wife  in  court?"  the  judge  said. 

A  thin,  washed-out,  pretty  woman  stood  up, 
and  clasped  her  hands  in  front  of  her. 

"Has  this  man  been  a  good  husband  to  you, 
madam?"  asked  the  young  judge. 

The  woman  broke  into  vehement  assurances. 
No  man  could  have  been  a  better  husband. 
Would  she  take  him  back?  Indeed  she  would 
take  him  back.  She  held  out  her  hands  as 
though  she  would  physically  drag  her  husband 
from  the  pillory. 

The  judge  bowed  toward  the  probation  officer, 
and  she  beckoned  the  prisoner  to  her. 

Other  men  followed,  and  in  the  fortune  of  each 
Mr.  Thorndike  found  himself,  to  his  surprise, 
taking  a  personal  interest.  It  was  as  good  as  a 
play.  It  reminded  him  of  the  Sicilians  he  had 
seen  in  London  in  their  little  sordid  tragedies. 
Only  these  actors  were  appearing  in  their  proper 
persons  in  real  dramas  of  a  life  he  did  not  knowr, 
but  which  appealed  to  something  that  had  been 
long  untouched,  long  in  disuse.  It  was  an 

160 


A  WASTED  DAY 

uncomfortable  sensation  that  left  him  restless 
because,  as  he  appreciated,  it  needed  expression, 
an  outlet.  He  found  this,  partially,  in  praising, 
through  Andrews,  the  young  judge  who  had 
publicly  rebuked  him.  Mr.  Thorndike  found 
him  astute,  sane;  his  queries  intelligent,  his 
comments  just.  And  this  probation  officer, 
she,  too,  was  capable,  was  she  not?  Smiling 
at  his  interest  in  what  to  him  was  an  old  story, 
the  younger  man  nodded. 

"I  like  her  looks,"  whispered  the  great  man. 
"Like  her  clear  eyes  and  clean  skin.  She  strikes 
me  as  able,  full  of  energy,  and  yet  womanly. 
These  men  when  they  come  under  her  charge," 
he  insisted,  eagerly,  "need  money  to  start  again, 
don't  they?"  He  spoke  anxiously.  He  be 
lieved  he  had  found  the  clew  to  his  restlessness. 
It  was  a  desire  to  help;  to  be  of  use  to  these 
failures  who  had  fallen  and  who  were  being 
lifted  to  their  feet.  Andrews  looked  at  him 
curiously.  "Anything  you  give  her,"  he  an 
swered,  "would  be  well  invested." 

"If  you  will  tell  me  her  name  and  address?" 
whispered  the  banker.  He  was  much  given  to 
charity,  but  it  had  been  perfunctory,  it  was  ex 
tended  on  the  advice  of  his  secretary.  In  help 
ing  here,  he  felt  a  genial  glow  of  personal  plea 
sure.  It  was  much  more  satisfactory  than  giv 
ing  an  Old  Master  to  his  private  chapel. 

161 


A  WASTED  DAY 

In  the  rear  of  the  court-room  there  was  a 
scuffle  that  caused  every  one  to  turn  and  look. 
A  man,  who  had  tried  to  force  his  way  past  the 
tipstaffs,  was  being  violently  ejected,  and,  as  he 
disappeared,  he  waved  a  paper  toward  Mr. 
Thorndike.  The  banker  recognized  him  as  his 
chief  clerk.  Andrews  rose  anxiously.  "That 
man  wanted  to  get  to  you.  I'll  see  what  it  is. 
Maybe  it's  important." 

Mr.  Thorndike  pulled  him  back. 

"Maybe  it  is,"  he  said  dryly.  "But  I  can't 
see  him  now,  I'm  busy." 

Slowly  the  long  line  of  derelicts,  of  birds  of 
prey,  of  sorry,  weak  failures,  passed  before  the 
seat  of  judgment.  Mr.  Thorndike  had  moved 
into  a  chair  nearer  to  the  rail,  and  from  time  to 
time  made  a  note  upon  the  back  of  an  envelope. 
He  had  forgotten  the  time  or  had  chosen  to  dis 
regard  it.  So  great  was  his  interest  that  he  had 
forgotten  the  particular  derelict  he  had  come  to 
serve,  until  Spear  stood  almost  at  his  elbow. 

Thorndike  turned  eagerly  to  the  judge,  and 
saw  that  he  was  listening  to  a  rotund,  gray  little 
man  with  beady,  bird-like  eyes  who,  as  he 
talked,  bowed  and  gesticulated.  Behind  him 
stood  a  younger  man,  a  more  modern  edition 
of  the  other.  He  also  bowed  and,  behind  gold 
eye-glasses,  smiled  ingratiatingly. 

162 


A  WASTED  DAY 

The  judge  nodded,  and  leaning  forward,  for  a 
few  moments  fixed  his  eyes  upon  the  prisoner. 

"You  are  a  very  fortunate  young  man,"  he 
said.  He  laid  his  hand  upon  a  pile  of  letters. 
"When  you  were  your  own  worst  enemy,  your 
friends  came  to  help  you.  These  letters  speak 
for  you;  your  employers,  whom  you  robbed, 
have  pleaded  with  me  in  your  favor.  It  is 
urged,  in  your  behalf,  that  at  the  time  you 
committed  the  crime  of  which  you  are  found 
guilty,  you  were  intoxicated.  In  the  eyes  of 
the  law,  that  is  no  excuse.  Some  men  can  drink 
and  keep  their  senses.  It  appears  you  cannot. 
When  you  drink  you  are  a  menace  to  yourself— 
and,  as  is  shown  by  this  crime,  to  the  com 
munity.  Therefore,  you  must  not  drink.  In 
view  of  the  good  character  to  which  your  friends 
have  testified,  and  on  the  condition  that  you  do 
not  touch  liquor,  I  will  not  sentence  you  to 
jail,  but  will  place  you  in  charge  of  the  probation 
officer." 

The  judge  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  beck 
oned  to  Mr.  Andrews.  It  was  finished.  Spear 
was  free,  and  from  different  parts  of  the  court 
room  people  were  moving  toward  the  door. 
Their  numbers  showed  that  the  friends  of  the 
young  man  had  been  many.  Mr.  Thorndike 
felt  a  certain  twinge  of  disappointment.  Even 
though  the  result  relieved  and  please'd  him,  he 

163 


A   WASTED   DAY 

wished,  in  bringing  it  about,  he  had  had  some 
part. 

He  begrudged  to  Isaacs  &  Sons  the  credit  of 
having  given  Spear  his  liberty.  His  morning 
had  been  wasted.  He  had  neglected  his  own 
interests,  and  in  no  way  assisted  those  of  Spear. 
He  was  moving  out  of  the  railed  enclosure  when 
Andrews  called  him  by  name. 

"His  honor,"  he  said  impressively,  "wishes 
to  speak  to  you." 

The  judge  leaned  over  his  desk  and  shook  Mr. 
Thorndike  by  the  hand.  Then  he  made  a 
speech.  The  speech  was  about  public-spirited 
citizens  who,  to  the  neglect  of  their  own  interests, 
came  to  assist  the  ends  of  justice,  and  fellow- 
creatures  in  misfortune.  He  purposely  spoke 
in  a  loud  voice,  and  every  one  stopped  to  listen. 

"The  law,  Mr.  Thorndike,  is  not  vindictive," 
he  said.  "It  wishes  only  to  be  just.  Nor  can 
it  be  swayed  by  wealth  or  political  or  social 
influences.  But  when  there  is  good  in  a  man, 
I,  personally,  want  to  know  it,  and  when  gmtle- 
men  like  yourself,  of  your  standing  in  this  city, 
come  here  to  speak  a  good  word  for  a  man,  we 
would  stultify  the  purpose  of  justice  if  we  did 
not  listen.  I  thank  you  for  coming,  and  I  wish 
more  of  our  citizens  were  as  unselfish  and 
public-spirited." 

It  was  all  quite  absurd  and  most  embarrassing, 
but  inwardly  Mr.  Thorndike  glowed  with  plea- 

164 


A   WASTED   DAY 

sure.  It  was  a  long  time  since  any  one  had  had 
the  audacity  to  tell  him  he  had  done  well. 
From  the  friends  of  Spear  there  was  a  ripple  of 
applause,  which  no  tipstaff  took  it  upon  himself 
to  suppress,  and  to  the  accompaniment  of  this, 
Mr.  Thorndike  walked  to  the  corridor.  He  was 
pleased  with  himself  and  with  his  fellow-men. 
He  shook  hands  with  Isaacs  &  Sons,  and  con 
gratulated  them  upon  their  public  spirit,  and 
the  typewriter  firm  upon  their  public  spirit. 
And  then  he  saw  Spear  standing  apart  regarding 
him  doubtfully. 

Spear  did  not  offer  his  hand,  but  Mr.  Thorn- 
dike  took  it,  and  shook  it,  and  said:  "I  want 
to  meet  your  mother." 

And  when  Mrs.  Spear  tried  to  stop  sobbing 
long  enough  to  tell  him  how  happy  she  was,  and 
how  grateful,  he  instead  told  her  what  a  fine  son 
she  had,  and  that  he  remembered  when  Spear 
used  to  carry  flowers  to  town  for  her.  And  she 
remembered  it,  too,  and  thanked  him  for  the 
flowers.  And  he  told  Spear,  when  Isaacs  & 
Sons  went  bankrupt,  which  at  the  rate  they  were 
giving  away  their  money  to  the  Hebrew  Hospital 
would  be  very  soon,  Spear  must  come  back  to 
him.  And  Isaacs  &  Sons  were  delighted  at  the 
great  man's  pleasantry,  and  afterward  repeated 
it  many  times,  calling  upon  each  other  to  bear 
witness,  and  Spear  felt  as  though  some  one  had 
given  him  a  new  backbone,  and  Andrews,  who 


A   WASTED   DAY 

was  guiding  Thorndike  out  of  the  building,  was 
thinking  to  himself  what  a  great  confidence  man 
had  been  lost  when  Thorndike  became  a  banker. 

The  chief  clerk  and  two  bank  messengers  were 
waiting  by  the  automobile  with  written  calls  for 
help  from  the  office.  They  pounced  upon  the 
banker  and  almost  lifted  him  into  the  car. 

"There's  still  time!"  panted  the  chief  clerk. 

"There  is  not!"  answered  Mr.  Thorndike. 
His  tone  was  rebellious,  defiant.  It  carried  all 
the  authority  of  a  spoiled  child  of  fortune. 
"I've  wasted  most  of  this  day,"  he  declared, 
"  and  I  intend  to  waste  the  rest  of  it.  Andrews," 
he  called,  "jump  in,  and  I'll  give  you  a  lunch 
at  Sherry's." 

The  vigilant  protector  of  the  public  dashed 
back  into  the  building. 

"Wait  till  I  get  my  hat!"  he  called. 

As  the  two  truants  rolled  up  the  avenue  the 
spring  sunshine  warmed  them,  the  sense  of 
duties  neglected  added  zest  to  their  holiday, 
and  young  Mr.  Andrews  laughed  aloud. 

Mr.  Thorndike  raised  his  eyebrows  inquiringly. 

"I  was  wondering,"  said  Andrews,  "how  much 
it  cost  you  to  keep  Spear  out  of  jail?" 

"I  don't  care,"  said  the  great  man  guiltily; 
"it  was  worth  it." 


1 66 


A  CHARMED  LIFE 

SHE  loved  him  so,  that  when  he  went  away 
to  a  little  war  in  which  his  country  was  inter 
ested  she  could  not  understand,  nor  quite 
forgive. 

As  the  correspondent  of  a  newspaper,  Chester 
ton  had  looked  on  at  other  wars;  when  the 
yellow  races  met,  when  the  infidel  Turk  spanked 
the  Christian  Greek;  and  one  he  had  watched 
from  inside  a  British  square,  where  he  was 
greatly  alarmed  lest  he  should  be  trampled  upon 
by  terrified  camels.  This  had  happened  before 
he  and  she  had  met.  After  they  met,  she  told 
him  that  what  chances  he  had  chosen  to  take 
before  he  came  into  her  life  fell  outside  of  her 
jurisdiction.  But  now  that  his  life  belonged  to 
her,  this  talk  of  his  standing  up  to  be  shot 
at  was  wicked.  It  was  worse  than  wicked;  it 
J'was  absurd. 

When  the  Maine  sank  in  Havana  harbor  and 
the  word  "war"  was  appearing  hourly  in  hysteri 
cal  extras,  Miss  Armitage  explained  her  position. 

"You  mustn't  think,"  she  said,  "that  I  am 
one  of  those  silly  girls  who  would  beg  you  not 
to  go  to  war." 


A  CHARMED  LIFE 

At  the  moment  of  speaking  her  cheek  hap 
pened  to  be  resting  against  his,  and  his  arm  was 
about  her,  so  he  humbly  bent  his  head  and 
kissed  her,  and  whispered  very  proudly  and 
softly,  "No,  dearest." 

At  which  she  withdrew  from  him  frowning. 

"No !  Pm  not  a  bit  like  those  girls,"  she  pro 
claimed.  "I  merely  tell  you  you  can't  go!  My 
gracious!"  she  cried,  helplessly.  She  knew  the 
words  fell  short  of  expressing  her  distress,  but 
her  education  had  not  supplied  her  with  excla 
mations  of  greater  violence. 

"My  goodness!"  she  cried.  "How  can  you 
frighten  me  so?  It's  not  like  you,"  she  re 
proached  him.  "You  are  so  unselfish,  so  noble. 
You  are  always  thinking  of  other  people.  How 
can  you  talk  of  going  to  war — to  be  killed — to 
me?  And  now,  now  that  you  have  made  me 
love  you  so?" 

The  hands,  that  when  she  talked  seemed  to 
him  like  swallows  darting  and  flashing  in  the 
sunlight,  clutched  his  sleeve.  The  fingers,  that 
he  would  rather  kiss  than  the  lips  of  any  other 
woman  that  ever  lived,  clung  to  his  arm.  Their 
clasp  reminded  him  of  that  of  a  drowning  child 
he  had  once  lifted  from  the  surf. 

"  If  you  should  die,"  whispered  Miss  Armitage, 
"what  would  I  do!  What  would  I  do !" 

"But,  my  dearest,"  cried  the  young  man. 
168 


A  CHARMED   LIFE 

"My  dearest  one!  I've  got  to  go.  It's  our  own 
war.  Everybody  else  will  go,"  he  pleaded. 
"Every  man  you  know,  and  they're  going  to 
fight,  too.  I'm  going  only  to  look  on.  That's 
bad  enough,  isn't  it,  without  sitting  at  home? 
You  should  be  sorry  I'm  not  going  to  fight." 

"Sorry!"  exclaimed  the  girl.  "If  you  love 
me " 

"If  I  love  you,"  shouted  the  young  man. 
His  voice  suggested  that  he  was  about  to  shake 
her.  "How  dare  you?" 

She  abandoned  that  position  and  attacked 
from  one  more  logical. 

"But  why  punish  me?"  she  protested.  "Do 
7  want  the  war  ?  Do  /  want  to  free  Cuba  ?  No  I 
I  want  you,  and  if  you  go,  you  are  the  one  who 
is  sure  to  be  killed.  You  are  so  big — and  so 
brave,  and  you  will  be  rushing  in  wherever  the 
fighting  is,  and  then — then  you  will  die."  She 
raised  her  eyes  and  looked  at  him  as  though 
seeing  him  from  a  great  distance.  "And,"  she 
added  fatefully,  "  I  will  die,  too,  or  maybe  I  will 
have  to  live,  to  live  without  you  for  years,  for 
many  miserable  years." 

Fearfully,  with  great  caution,  as  though  in  his 
joy  in  her  he  might  crush  her  in  his  hands,  the 
young  man  drew  her  to  him  and  held  her  close. 
After  a  silence  he  whispered.  "But,  you  know 
that  nothing  can  happen  to  me.  Not*  now,  that 

169 


A  CHARMED   LIFE 

God  has  let  me  love  you.  He  could  not  be  so 
cruel.  He  would  not  have  given  me  such  happi 
ness  to  take  it  from  me.  A  man  who  loves  you, 
as  I  love  you,  cannot  come  to  any  harm.  And 
the  man  you  love  is  immortal,  immune.  He 
holds  a  charmed  life.  So  long  as  you  love  him, 
he  must  live." 

The  eyes  of  the  girl  smiled  up  at  him  through 
her  tears.  She  lifted  her  lips  to  his.  "Then 
you  will  never  die!"  she  said. 

She  held  him  away  from  her.  "Listen!"  she 
whispered.  "  What  you  say  is  true.  It  must  be 
true,  because  you  are  always  right.  I  love  you 
so  that  nothing  can  harm  you.  My  love  will 
be  a  charm.  It  will  hang  around  your  neck 
and  protect  you,  and  keep  you,  and  bring  you 
back  to  me.  When  you  are  in  danger  my  love 
will  save  you.  For,  while  it  lives,  I  live.  When 
it  dies " 

Chesterton  kissed  her  quickly. 

"What  happens  then,"  he  said,  "doesn't 
matter." 

The  war  game  had  run  its  happy-go-lucky 
course  briefly  and  brilliantly,  with  "glory  enough 
for  all,"  even  for  Chesterton.  For,  in  no 
previous  campaign  had  good  fortune  so  per 
sistently  stood  smiling  at  his  elbow.  At  each 
moment  of  the  war  that  was  critical,  picturesque, 
dramatic,  by  some  lucky  accident  he  found  him- 

170 


A  CHARMED  LIFE 

self  among  those  present.  He  could  not  lose. 
Even  when  his  press  boat  broke  down  at  Car 
denas,  a  Yankee  cruiser  and  two  Spanish  gun 
boats,  apparently  for  his  sole  benefit,  engaged 
,  in  an  impromptu  duel  within  range  of  his  mega- 
,  phone.  When  his  horse  went  lame,  the  column 
with  which  he  had  wished  to  advance,  passed 
forward  to  the  front  unmolested,  while  the  rear 
guard,  to  which  he  had  been  forced  to  join  his 
fortune,  fought  its  way  through  the  stifling 
underbrush. 

Between  his  news  despatches,  when  he  was  not 
singing  the  praises  of  his  fellow-countrymen,  or 
copying  lists  of  their  killed  and  wounded,  he 
wrote  to  Miss  Armitage.  His  letters  were 
scrawled  on  yellow  copy  paper  and  consisted  of 
repetitions  of  the  three  words,  "I  love  you," 
rearranged,  illuminated,  and  intensified. 

Each  letter  began  much  in  the  same  way. 
"The  war  is  still  going  on.  You  can  read  about 
it  in  the  papers.  What  I  want  you  to  know  is 
that  I  love  you  as  no  man  ever—  And  so  on 
for  many  pages. 

From  her  only  one  of  the  letters  she  wrote 
reached  him.  It  was  picked  up  in  the  sand  at 
Siboney  after  the  medical  corps,  in  an  effort  to 
wipe  out  the  yellow-fever,  had  set  fire  to  the 
post-office  tent. 

She  had  written  it  some  weeks  before  from 
171 


A  CHARMED  LIFE 

her  summer  home  at  Newport,  and  in  it  she 
said:  "When  you  went  to  the  front,  I  thought 
no  woman  could  love  more  than  I  did  then. 
But,  now  I  know.  At  least  I  know  one  girl 
who  can.  She  cannot  write  it.  She  can  never 
tell  you.  You  must  just  believe. 

"  Each  day  I  hear  from  you,  for  as  soon  as  the 
paper  comes,  I  take  it  down  to  the  rocks  and 
read  your  cables,  and  I  look  south  across  the 
ocean  to  Cuba,  and  try  to  see  you  in  all  that 
fighting  and  heat  and  fever.  But  I  am  not 
afraid.  For  each  morning  I  wake  to  find  I  love 
you  more;  that  it  has  grown  stronger,  more 
wonderful,  more  hard  to  bear.  And  I  know  the 
charm  I  gave  you  grows  with  it,  and  is  more 
powerful,  and  that  it  will  bring  you  back  to  me 
wearing  new  honors,  '  bearing  your  sheaves 
with  you.' 

"As  though  I  cared  for  your  new  honors.  I 
want  you,  you,  you — only  you." 

When  Santiago  surrendered  and  the  invading 
army  settled'  down  to  arrange  terms  of  peace, 
and  imbibe  fever,  and  General  Miles  moved  to 
Porto  Rico,  Chesterton  moved  with  him. 

In  that  pretty  little  island  a  command  of 
regulars  under  a  general  of  the  regular  army  had, 
in  a  night  attack,  driven  back  the  Spaniards 
from  Adhuntas.  The  next  afternoon  as  the 
column  was  in  line  of  march,  and  the  men  were 

172 


A  CHARMED  LIFE 

shaking  themselves  into  their  accoutrements, 
a  dusty,  sweating  volunteer  staff  officer  rode 
down  the  main  street  of  Adhuntas,  and  with  the 
authority  of  a  field  marshal,  held  up  his  hand. 

"General  Miles's  compliments,  sir,"  he  panted, 
"and  peace  is  declared!" 

Different  men  received  the  news  each  in  a 
different  fashion.  Some  whirled  their  hats  in 
the  air  and  cheered.  Those  who  saw  promotion 
and  the  new  insignia  on  their  straps  vanish, 
swore  deeply.  Chesterton  fell  upon  his  saddle 
bags  and  began  to  distribute  his  possessions 
among  the  enlisted  men.  After  he  had  remobil- 
ized,  his  effects  consisted  of  a  change  of  clothes, 
his  camera,  water-bottle,  and  his  medicine  case. 
In  his  present  state  of  health  and  spirits  he 
could  not  believe  he  stood  in  need  of  the  medicine 
case,  but  it  was  a  gift  from  Miss  Armitage,  and 
carried  with  it  a  promise  from  him  that  he 
always  would  carry  it.  He  had  "packed"  it 
throughout  the  campaign,  and  for  others  it  had 
proved  of  value. 

"  I  take  it  you  are  leaving  us,"  said  an  officer 
enviously. 

"I  am  leaving  so  quick,"  cried  Chesterton 
laughing,  "that  you  won't  even  see  the  dust. 
There's  a  transport  starts  from  Mayaguez  at 
six  to-morrow  morning,  and,  if  I  don't  catch  it, 
this  pony  will  die  on  the  wharf." 


A  CHARMED   LIFE 

"The  road  to  Mayaguez  is  not  healthy  for 
Americans,"  said  the  general  in  command.  "I 
don't  think  I  ought  to  let  you  go.  The  enemy 
does  not  know  peace  is  on  yet,  and  there  are  a 
lot  of  guerillas 

Chesterton  shook  his  head  in  pitying  wonder. 

"Not  let  me  go!"  he  exclaimed.  "Why, 
General,  you  haven't  enough  men  in  your  com 
mand  to  stop  me,  and  as  for  the  Spaniards  and 
guerillas — !  I'm  homesick,"  cried  the  young 
man.  "I'm  so  damned  homesick  that  I  am 
liable  to  die  of  it  before  the  transport  gets  me 
to  Sandy  Hook." 

"If  you  are  shot  up  by  an  outpost,"  growled 
the  general,  "you  will  be  worse  off  than  home 
sick.  It's  forty  miles  to  Mayaguez.  Better 
wait  till  daylight.  Where's  the  sense  of  dying, 
after  the  fighting's  over?" 

"If  I  don't  catch  that  transport  I  sure  will 
die,"  laughed  Chesterton.  His  head  was  bent 
and  he  was  tugging  at  his  saddle-girths.  Ap 
parently  the  effort  brought  a  deeper  shadow  to 
his  tan,  "but  nothing  else  can  kill  me!  I  have 
a  charm,  General,"  he  exclaimed. 

"We  hadn't  noticed  it,"  said  the  general. 

The  staff  officers,  according  to  regulations, 
laughed. 

"It's  not  that  kind  of  a  charm,"  said  Ches 
terton.  "Good-by,  General." 

174 


A  CHARMED  LIFE 

The  road  was  hardly  more  than  a  trail,  but 
the  moon  made  it  as  light  as  day,  and  cast 
across  it  black  tracings  of  the  swinging  vines 
and  creepers;  while  high  in  the  air  it  turned  the 
polished  surface  of  the  palms  into  glittering 
silver.  As  he  plunged  into  the  cool  depths  of 
the  forest  Chesterton  threw  up  his  arms  and 
thanked  God  that  he  was  moving  toward  her. 
The  luck  that  had  accompanied  him  throughout 
the  campaign  had  held  until  the  end.  Had  he 
been  forced  to  wait  for  a  transport,  each  hour 
would  have  meant  a  month  of  torment,  an 
arid,  wasted  place  in  his  life.  As  it  was,  with 
each  eager  stride  of  El  Capitan,  his  little  Porto 
Rican  pony,  he  was  brought  closer  to  her.  He 
was  so  happy  that  as  he  galloped  through  the 
dark  shadows  of  the  jungle  or  out  into  the  bril 
liant  moonlight  he  shouted  aloud  and  sang; 
and  again  as  he  urged  El  Capitan  to  greater 
bursts  of  speed,  he  explained  in  joyous,  breath 
less  phrases  why  it  was  that  he  urged  him 
on. 

"For  she  is  wonderful  and  most  beautiful," 
he  cried,  "the  most  glorious  girl  in  all  the  world  ! 
And,  if  I  kept  her  waiting,  even  for  a  moment, 
El  Capitan,  I  would  be  unworthy — and  I  might 
lose  her !  So  you  see  we  ride  for  a  great  prize ! " 

The  Spanish  column  that,  the  night  before, 
had  been  driven  from  Adhuntas,  now  in  igno- 

175 


A   CHARMED   LIFE 

ranee  of  peace,  occupied  both  sides  of  the  valley 
through  which  ran  the  road  to  Mayaguez,  and 
in  ambush  by  the  road  itself  had  placed  an  out 
post  of  two  men.  One  was  a  sharp-shooter  of 
the  picked  corps  of  the  Guardia  Civil,  and  one 
a  sergeant  of  the  regiment  that  lay  hidden 
in  the  heights.  If  the  Americans  advanced 
toward  Mayaguez,  these  men  were  to  wait  until 
the  head  of  the  column  drew  abreast  of  them, 
when  they  were  to  fire.  The  report  of  their 
rifles  would  be  the  signal  for  those  in  the  hill 
above  to  wipe  out  the  memory  of  Adhuntas. 

Chesterton  had  been  riding  at  a  gallop,  but, 
as  he  reached  the  place  where  the  men  lay  in 
ambush,  he  pulled  El  Capitan  to  a  walk,  and 
took  advantage  of  his  first  breathing  spell  to 
light  his  pipe.  He  had  already  filled  it,  and 
was  now  fumbling  in  his  pocket  for  his  match 
box.  The  match-box  was  of  wood  such  as  one 
can  buy,  filled  to  the  brim  with  matches,  for 
one  penny.  But  it  was  a  most  precious  posses 
sion.  In  the  early  days  of  his  interest  in  Miss 
Armitage,  as  they  were  once  setting  forth  upon 
a  motor  trip,  she  had  handed  it  to  him. 

"Why,"  he  asked. 

"You  always  forget  to  bring  any,"  she  said 
simply,  "and  have  to  borrow  some." 

The  other  men  in  the  car,  knowing  this  to  be 
a  just  reproof,  laughed  sardonically,  and  at  the 


A  CHARMED   LIFE 

laugh  the  girl  had  looked  up  in  surprise.  Ches 
terton,  seeing  the  look,  understood  that  her  act, 
trifling  as  it  was,  had  been  sincere,  had  been 
inspired  simply  by  thought  of  his  comfort. 
And  he  asked  himself  why  young  Miss  Armitage 
should  consider  his  comfort,  and  why  the  fact 
that  she  did  consider  it  should  make  him  so 
extremely  happy.  And  he  decided  it  must  be 
because  she  loved  him  and  he  loved  her. 

Having  arrived  at  that  conclusion,  he  had 
asked  her  to  marry  him,  and  upon  the  match 
box  had  marked  the  date  and  the  hour.  Since 
then  she  had  given  him  many  pretty  presents, 
marked  with  her  initials,  marked  with  his  crest, 
with  strange  cabalistic  mottoes  that  meant 
nothing  to  any  one  save  themselves.  But  the 
wooden  match-box  was  still  the  most  valued 
of  his  possessions. 

As  he  rode  into  the  valley  the  rays  of  the  moon 
fell  fully  upon  him,  and  exposed  him  to  the  out 
post  as  pitilessly  as  though  he  had  been  held  in 
the  circle  of  a  search-light. 

The  bronzed  Mausers  pushed  cautiously 
through  the  screen  of  vines.  There  was  a 
pause,  and  the  rifle  of  the  sergeant  wavered. 
When  he  spoke  his  tone  was  one  of  disappoint 
ment. 

"He  is  a  scout,  riding  alone,"  he  sai<J. 

"He  is  an  officer,"  returned  the  sharp-shooter, 
177 


A  CHARMED  LIFE 

excitedly.  "The  others  follow.  We  should  fire 
now  and  give  the  signal." 

"He  is  no  officer,  he  is  a  scout,"  repeated  the 
sergeant.  "They  have  sent  him  ahead  to  study 
the  trail  and  to  seek  us.  He  may  be  a  league 
in  advance.  If  we  shoot  him,  we  only  warn  the 
others." 

Chesterton  was  within  fifty  yards.  After  an 
excited  and  anxious  search  he  had  found  the 
match-box  in  the  wrong  pocket.  The  eyes  of 
the  sharp-shooter  frowned  along  the  barrel  of 
his  rifle.  With  his  chin  pressed  against  the 
stock  he  whispered  swiftly  from  the  corner  of 
his  lips,  "He  is  an  officer!  I  am  aiming  where 
the  strap  crosses  his  heart.  You  aim  at  his 
belt.  We  fire  together." 

The  heat  of  the  tropic  night  and  the  strenu 
ous  gallop  had  covered  El  Capitan  with  a  lather 
of  sweat.  The  reins  upon  his  neck  dripped 
with  it.  The  gauntlets  with  which  Chesterton 
held  them  were  wet.  As  he  raised  the  match 
box  it  slipped  from  his  fingers  and  fell  noiselessly 
in  the  trail.  With  an  exclamation  he  dropped 
to  the  road  and  to  his  knees,  and  groping  in  the 
dust  began  an  eager  search. 

The  sergeant  caught  at  the  rifle  of  the  sharp 
shooter,  and  pressed  it  down. 

"Look!"  he  whispered.  "He  is  a  scout. 
He  is  searching  the  trail  for  the  tracks  of  our 


A  CHARMED   LIFE 

ponies.  If  you  fire  they  will  hear  it  a  league 
away." 

"  But  if  he  finds  our  trail  and  returns— 

The  sergeant  shook  his  head.  "  I  let  him  pass 
forward,"  he  said  grimly.  "He  will  never 
return." 

Chesterton  pounced  upon  the  half-buried 
match-box,  and  in  a  panic  lest  he  might  again 
lose  it,  thrust  it  inside  his  tunic. 

"Little  do  you  know,  El  Capitan,"  he  ex 
claimed  breathlessly,  as  he  scrambled  back 
into  the  saddle  and  lifted  the  pony  into  a  gallop, 
"what  a  narrow  escape  I  had.  I  almost  lost  it." 

Toward  midnight  they  came  to  a  wooden 
bridge  swinging  above  a  ravine  in  which  a  moun 
tain  stream,  forty  feet  below,  splashed  over  half- 
hidden  rocks,  and  the  stepping  stones  of  the 
ford.  Even  before  the  campaign  began  the 
bridge  had  outlived  its  usefulness,  and  the 
unwonted  burden  of  artillery,  and  the  vibrations 
of  marching  men  had  so  shaken  it  that  it  swayed 
like  a  house  of  cards.  Threatened  by  its  own 
weight,  at  the  mercy  of  the  first  tropic  storm, 
it  hung  a  death  trap  for  the  one  who  first  added 
to  its  burden. 

No  sooner  had  El  Capitan  struck  it  squarely 
with  his  four  hoofs,  than  he  reared  and,  whirling, 
sprang  back  to  the  solid  earth.  The  sudden 
ness  of  his  retreat  had  all  but  thrown  Chester- 

179 


A  CHARMED   LIFE 

ton,  but  he  regained  his  seat,  and  digging  the 
pony  roughly  with  his  spurs,  pulled  his  head 
again  toward  the  bridge. 

"What  are  you  shying  at,  now?"  he  panted. 
"  That's  a  perfectly  good  bridge." 

For  a  minute  horse  and  man  struggled  for  the 
mastery,  the  horse  spinning  in  short  circles,  the 
man  pulling,  tugging,  urging  him  with  knees  and 
spurs.  The  first  round  ended  in  a  draw.  There 
were  two  more  rounds  with  the  advantage 
slightly  in  favor  of  El  Capitan,  for  he  did  not 
approach  the  bridge. 

The  night  was  warm  and  the  exertion  violent. 
Chesterton,  puzzled  and  annoyed,  paused  to  re 
gain  his  breath  and  his  temper.  Below  him,  in 
the  ravine,  the  shallow  waters  of  the  ford  called 
to  him,  suggesting  a  pleasant  compromise.  He 
turned  his  eyes  downward  and  saw  hanging  over 
the  water  what  appeared  to  be  a  white  bird  upon 
the  lower  limb  of  a  dead  tree.  He  knew  it  to  be 
an  orchid,  an  especially  rare  orchid,  and  he  knew, 
also,  that  the  orchid  was  the  favorite  flower  of 
Miss  Armitage.  In  a  moment  he  was  on  his 
(  feet,  and  with  the  reins  over  his  arm,  was  slip- 
*  ping  down  the  bank,  dragging  El  Capitan  behind 
him.  He  ripped  from  the  dead  tree  the  bark 
to  which  the  orchid  was  clinging,  and  with  wet 
moss  and  grass  packed  it  in  his  leather  camera 
case.  The  camera  he  abandoned  on  the  path* 

1 80 


A  CHARMED  LIFE 

He  always  could  buy  another  camera;  he  could 
not  again  carry  a  white  orchid,  plucked  in  the 
heart  of  the  tropics  on  the  night  peace  was 
declared,  to  the  girl  he  left  behind  him.  Fol 
lowed  by  El  Capitan,  nosing  and  snuffing 
gratefully  at  the  cool  waters,  he  waded  the  ford, 
and  with  his  camera  case  swinging  from  his 
shoulder,  galloped  up  the  opposite  bank  and 
back  into  the  trail. 

A  minute  later,  the  bridge,  unable  to  recover 
from  the  death  blow  struck  by  El  Capitan,  went 
whirling  into  the  ravine  and  was  broken  upon 
the  rocks  below.  Hearing  the  crash  behind 
him,  Chesterton  guessed  that  in  the  jungle  a 
tree  had  fallen. 

They  had  started  at  six  in  the  afternoon  and 
had  covered  twenty  of  the  forty  miles  that  lay 
between  Adhuntas  and  Mayaguez,  when,  just 
at  the  outskirts  of  the  tiny  village  of  Caguan, 
El  Capitan  stumbled,  and  when  he  arose  pain 
fully,  he  again  fell  forward. 

Caguan  was  a  little  church,  a  little  vine- 
covered  inn,  a  dozen  one-story  adobe  houses 
shining  in  the  moonlight  like  whitewashed  sepul 
chres.  They  faced  a  grass-grown  plaza,  in  the 
centre  of  which  stood  a  great  wooden  cross. 
At  one  corner  of  the  village  was  a  corral,  and 
in  it  many  ponies.  At  the  sight  Chesterton 
gave  a  cry  of  relief.  A  light  showed  through  the 

181 


A  CHARMED  LIFE 

closed  shutters  of  the  inn,  and  when  he  beat 
with  his  whip  upon  the  door,  from  the  adobe 
houses  other  lights  shone,  and  white-clad  figures 
appeared  in  the  moonlight.  The  landlord  of  the 
inn  was  a  Spaniard,  fat  and  prosperous-looking, 
but  for  the  moment  his  face  was  eloquent  with 
such  distress  and  misery  that  the  heart  of  the 
young  man,  who  was  at  peace  with  all  the  world, 
went  instantly  out  to  him.  The  Spaniard  was 
less  sympathetic.  When  he  saw  the  khaki  suit 
and  the  campaign  hat  he  scowled,  and  ungra 
ciously  would  have  closed  the  door.  Chesterton, 
apologizing,  pushed  it  open.  His  pony,  he  ex 
plained,  had  gone  lame,  and  he  must  have 
another,  and  at  once.  The  landlord  shrugged 
his  shoulders.  These  were  war  times,  he  said, 
and  the  American  officer  could  take  what  he 
likedt  They  in  Caguan  were  non-combatants 
and  could  not  protest.  Chesterton  hastened  to 
reassure  him.  The  war,  he  announced,  was 
over,  and  were  it  not,  he  was  no  officer  to  issue 
requisitions.  He  intended  to  pay  for  the  pony. 
He  unbuckled  his  belt  and  poured  upon  the  table 
a  handful  of  Spanish  doubloons.  The  landlord 
lowered  the  candle  and  silently  counted  the 
gold  pieces,  and  then  calling  to  him  two  of  his 
fellow-villagers,  crossed  the  tiny  plaza  and 
entered  the  corral. 

"The  American  pig,"  he  whispered,  "wishes  to 
182 


A  CHARMED  LIFE 

buy  a  pony.  He  tells  me  the  war  is  over;  that 
Spain  has  surrendered.  We  know  that  must  be 
a  lie.  It  is  more  probable  he  is  a  deserter.  He 
claims  he  is  a  civilian,  but  that  also  is  a  lie,  for 
he  is  in  uniform.  You,  Paul,  sell  him  your 
pony,  and  then  wait  for  him  at  the  first  turn  in 
the  trail,  and  take  it  from  him." 

"He  is  armed,"  protested  the  one  called 
Paul. 

"You  must  not  give  him  time  to  draw  his 
revolver,"  ordered  the  landlord.  "You  and 
Pedro  will  shoot  him  from  the  shadow.  He  is 
our  country's  enemy,  and  it  will  be  in  a  good 
cause.  And  he  may  carry  despatches.  If  we 
take  them  to  the  commandante  at  Mayaguez 
he  will  reward  us." 

"And  the  gold  pieces?"  demanded  the  one 
called  Paul. 

"We  will  divide  them  in  three  parts,"  said 
the  landlord. 

In  the  front  of  the  inn,  surrounded  by  a  ghost 
like  group  that  spoke  its  suspicions,  Chesterton 
was  lifting  his  saddle  from  El  Capitan  and  rub 
bing  the  lame  foreleg.  It  was  not  a  serious 
sprain.  A  week  would  set  it  right,  but  for  that 
night  the  pony  was  useless.  Impatiently,  Ches 
terton  called  across  the  plaza,  begging  the  land 
lord  to  make  haste.  He  was  eager  to  be  gone, 
alarmed  and  fearful  lest  even  this  slight  delay 

183 


A  CHARMED  LIFE 

should  cause  him  to  miss  the  transport.  The 
thought  was  intolerable.  But  he  was  also 
acutely  conscious  that  he  was  very  hungry, 
and  he  was  too  old  a  campaigner  to  scoff  at 
hunger.  With  the  hope  that  he  could  find 
something  to  carry  with  him  and  eat  as  he  rode 
forward,  he  entered  the  inn. 

The  main  room  of  the  house  was  now  in  dark 
ness,  but  a  smaller  room  adjoining  it  was  lit  by 
candles,  and  by  a  tiny  taper  floating  before  a 
crucifix.  In  the  light  of  the  candles  Chesterton 
made  out  a  bed,  a  priest  bending  over  it,  a 
woman  kneeling  beside  it,  and  upon  the  bed  the 
little  figure  of  a  boy  tossed  and  moaned.  As 
Chesterton  halted  and  waited  hesitating,  the 
priest  strode  past  him,  and  in  a  voice  dull  and 
flat  with  grief  and  weariness,  ordered  those  at 
the  door  to  bring  the  landlord  quickly.  As  one 
of  the  group  leaped  toward  the  corral,  the  priest 
said  to  the  others :  "  There  is  another  attack.  I 
have  lost  hope." 

Chesterton  advanced  and  asked  if  he  could  be 
of  service.  The  priest  shook  his  head.  The 
child,  he  said,  was  the  only  son  of  the  landlord, 
and  much  beloved  by  him,  and  by  all  the  vil 
lage.  He  was  now  in  the  third  week  of  typhoid 
fever  and  the  period  of  hemorrhages.  Unless 
they  could  be  checked,  the  boy  would  die,  and 
the  priest,  who  for  many  miles  of  mountain  and 

584 


A  CHARMED  LIFE 

forest  was  also  the  only  doctor,  had  exhausted 
his  store  of  simple  medicines. 

"Nothing  can  stop  the  hemorrhage,"  he  pro 
tested  wearily,  "but  the  strongest  of  drugs. 
And  I  have  nothing!" 

Chesterton  bethought  him  of  the  medicine 
case  Miss  Armitage  had  forced  upon  him.  "I 
have  given  opium  to  the  men  for  dysentery," 
he  said.  "Would  opium  help  you?" 

The  priest  sprang  at  him  and  pushed  him  out 
of  the  door  and  toward  the  saddle-bags. 

"My  children,"  he  cried,  to  the  silent  group 
in  the  plaza,  "God  has  sent  a  miracle!" 

After  an  hour  at  the  bedside  the  priest  said, 
"He  will  live,"  and  knelt,  and  the  mother  of 
the  boy  and  the  villagers  knelt  with  him.  When 
Chesterton  raised  his  eyes,  he  found  that  the 
landlord,  who  had  been  silently  watching  while 
the  two  men  struggled  with  death  for  the  life 
of  his  son,  had  disappeared.  But  he  heard, 
leaving  the  village  along  the  trail  to  Mayaguez, 
the  sudden  clatter  of  a  pony's  hoofs.  It  moved 
like  a  thing  driven  with  fear. 

The  priest  strode  out  into  the  moonlight. 
In  the  recovery  of  the  child  he  saw  only  a 
demonstration  of  the  efficacy  of  prayer,  and  he 
could  not  too  quickly  bring  home  the  lesson 
to  his  parishioners.  Amid  their  murmurs  of 
wonder  and  gratitude  Chesterton  rdde  awav. 


A  CHARMED  LIFE 

To  the  kindly  care  of  the  priest  he  bequeathed 
El  Capitan.  With  him,  aL>o,  he  left  the  gold 
pieces  which  were  to  pay  for  the  fresh  pony. 

A  quarter  of  a  mile  outside  the  village  three 
white  figures  confronted  him.  Two  who  stood 
apart  in  the  shadow  shrank  from  observation, 
but  the  landlord,  seated  bareback  upon  a  pony 
that  from  some  late  exertion  was  breathing 
heavily,  called  to  him  to  halt. 

"In  the  fashion  of  my  country,"  he  began 
grandiloquently,  "we  have  come  this  far  to  wish 
you  God  speed  upon  your  journey."  In  the 
fashion  of  the  American  he  seized  Chesterton  by 
the  hand.  I  thank  you,  senor,"  he  murmured. 

"Not  me,"  returned  Chesterton.  "But  the 
one  who  made  me  'pack'  that  medicine  chest. 
Thank  her,  for  to-night,  I  think,  it  saved  a  life." 

The  Spaniard  regarded  him  curiously,  fixing 
him  with  his  eyes  as  though  deep  in  considera 
tion.  At  last  he  smiled  gravely. 

"You  are  right,"  he  said.  "Let  us  both 
remember  her  in  our  prayers." 

As  Chesterton  rode  away  the  words  remained 
gratefully  in  his  memory  and  filled  him  with 
pleasant  thoughts.  "The  world,"  he  mused, 
"is  full  of  just  such  kind  and  gentle  souls." 

After  an  interminable  delay  he  reached  New 
port,  and  they  escaped  from  the  others,  and  Miss 

1 86 


A  CHARMED  LIFE 

Armitage  and  he  ran  down  the  lawn  to  the  rocks, 
and  stood  with  the  waves  whispering  at  their 
feet. 

It  was  the  moment  for  which  each  had  so 
often  longed,  with  which  both  had  so  often 
tortured  themselves  by  living  in  imagination, 
that  now,  that  it  was  theirs,  they  were  fearful 
it  might  not  be  true. 

Finally,  he  said:  "And  the  charm  never 
failed !  Indeed,  it  was  wonderful !  It  stood  by 
me  so  obviously.  For  instance,  the  night  before 
San  Juan,  in  the  mill  at  El  Poso,  I  slept  on  the 
same  poncho  with  another  correspondent.  I 
woke  up  with  a  raging  appetite  for  bacon  and 
coffee,  and  he  woke  up  out  of  his  mind,  and  with 
a  temperature  of  one  hundred  and  four.  And 
again,  I  was  standing  by  Capron's  gun  at  El 
Caney,  when  a  shell  took  the  three  men  who 
served  it,  and  only  scared  me.  And  there  was 
another  time—  He  stopped.  "Anyway,"  he 
laughed,  "here  I  am." 

"But  there  was  one  night,  one  awful  night," 
began  the  girl.  She  trembled,  and  he  made 
this  an  added  excuse  for  drawing  her  closer 
to  him.  "When  I  felt  you  were  in  great  peril, 
that  you  would  surely  die.  And  all  through 
the  night  I  knelt  by  the  window  and  looked 
toward  Cuba  and  prayed,  and  prayed  to  God 
to  let  you  live." 


A  CHARMED  LIFE 

Chesterton  bent  his  head  and  kissed  the  tips 
of  her  fingers.  After  a  moment  he  said :  "  Would 
you  know  what  night  it  was?  It  might  be  curi 
ous  if  I  had  been " 

"Would  I  know!"  cried  the  girl.  "It  was 
eight  days  ago.  The  night  of  the  twelfth.  An 
awful  night!" 

"The  twelfth!"  exclaimed  Chesterton,  and 
laughed  and  then  begged  her  pardon  humbly. 
"I  laughed  because  the  twelfth,"  he  exclaimed, 
"was  the  night  peace  was  declared.  The  war 
was  over.  I'm  sorry,  but  that  night  I  was  riding 
toward  you,  thinking  only  of  you.  I  was  never 
for  a  moment  in  danger." 


J88 


THE  AMATEUR 

I 

IT  was  February,  off  the  Banks,  and  so  thick 
was  the  weather  that,  on  the  upper  decks,  one 
could  have  driven  a  sleigh.  Inside  the  smoking- 
room  Austin  Ford,  as  securely  sheltered  from 
the  blizzard  as  though  he  had  been  sitting 
in  front  of  a  wood  fire  at  his  club,  ordered  hot 
gin  for  himself  and  the  ship's  doctor.  The 
ship's  doctor  had  gone  below  on  another  "hurry 
call"  from  the  widow.  At  the  first  luncheon 
on  board  the  widow  had  sat  on  the  right  of 
Doctor  Sparrow,  with  Austin  Ford  facing  her. 
But  since  then,  except  to  the  doctor,  she  had 
been  invisible.  So,  at  frequent  intervals,  the 
ill  health  of  the  widow  had  deprived  Ford  of  the 
society  of  the  doctor.  That  it  deprived  him, 
also,  of  the  society  of  the  widow  did  not  concern 
him.  Her  life  had  not  been  spent  upon  ocean 
liners;  she  could  not  remember  when  state 
rooms  were  named  after  the  States  of  the  Union. 
She  could  not  tell  him  of  shipwrecks  and  salvage, 
of  smugglers  and  of  the  modern  pirates  whc 
found  their  victims  in  the  smoking-room. 

189 


THE  AMATEUR 

Ford  was  on  his  way  to  England  to  act  as  the 
London  correspondent  of  the  New  York  Re 
public.  For  three  years  on  that  most  sensa 
tional  of  the  New  York  dailies  he  had  been  the 
star  man,  the  chief  muckraker,  the  chief  sleuth. 
His  interest  was  in  crime.  Not  in  crimes 
committed  in  passion  or  inspired  by  drink,  but 
in  such  offenses  against  law  and  society  as  are 
perpetrated  with  nice  intelligence.  The  mur 
derer,  the  burglar,  the  strong-arm  men  who, 
in  side  streets,  waylay  respectable  citizens  did 
not  appeal  to  him.  The  man  he  studied,  pur 
sued,  and  exposed  was  the  cashier  who  evolved 
a  new  method  of  covering  up  his  peculations, 
the  dishonest  president  of  an  insurance  com 
pany,  the  confidence  man  who  used  no  concealed 
weapon  other  than  his  wit.  Toward  the  crimi 
nals  he  pursued  young  Ford  felt  no  personal 
animosity.  He  harassed  them  as  he  would  have 
shot  a  hawk  killing  chickens.  Not  because  he 
disliked  the  hawk,  but  because  the  battle  was 
unequal,  and  because  he  felt  sorry  for  the 
chickens. 

Had  you  called  Austin  Ford  an  amateur  detec 
tive  he  would  have  been  greatly  annoyed.  He 
argued  that  his  position  was  similar  to  that  of 
the  dramatic  critic.  The  dramatic  critic  warned 
the  public  against  bad  plays;  Ford  warned  it 
against  bad  men.  Having  done  that,  he  left  it 

190 


THE  AMATEUR 

to  the  public  to  determine  whether  the  bad  man 
should  thrive  or  perish. 

When  the  managing  editor  told  him  of  his 
appointment  to  London,  Ford  had  protested 
that  his  work  lay  in  New  York;  that  of  London 
and  the  English,  except  as  a  tourist  and  sight 
seer,  he  knew  nothing. 

'' That's  just  why  we  are  sending  you,"  ex 
plained  the  managing  editor.  "Our  readers  are 
ignorant.  To  make  them  read  about  London 
you've  got  to  tell  them  about  themselves  in 
London.  They  like  to  know  who's  been  pre 
sented  at  court,  about  the  American  girls  who 
have  married  dukes;  and  which  ones  opened  a 
bazaar,  and  which  one  opened  a  hat  shop,  and 
which  is  getting  a  divorce.  Don't  send  us  any 
thing  concerning  suffragettes  and  Dreadnaughts. 
Just  send  us  stuff  about  Americans.  If  you  take 
your  meals  in  the  Carlton  grill-room  and  drink 
at  the  Cecil  you  can  pick  up  more  good  stories 
than  we  can  print.  You  will  find  lots  of  your 
friends  over  there.  Some  of  those  girls  who 
married  dukes,"  he  suggested,  "know  you, 
don't  they?" 

"Not  since  they  married  dukes,"  said  Ford. 

"Well,  anyway,  all  your  other  friends  will  be 
there,"  continued  the  managing  editor  encour 
agingly.  "Now  that  they  have  shut  up  the 
tracks  here  all  the  con  men  have  gone  to  Lon- 

191 


THE  AMATEUR 

don.  They  say  an  American  can't  take  a  drink 
at  the  Salisbury  without  his  fellow-country 
men  having  a  fight  as  to  which  one  will  sell 
him  a  gold  brick." 

Ford's  eyes  lightened  in  pleasurable  an 
ticipation. 

"Look  them  over,"  urged  the  managing 
editor,  "and  send  us  a  special.  Call  it  'The 
American  Invasion.'  Don't  you  see  a  story 
in  it?" 

"It  will  be  the  first  one  I  send  you,"  said 
Ford. 

The  ship's  doctor  returned  from  his  visit 
below  decks  and  sank  into  the  leather  cushion 
close  to  Ford's  elbow.  For  a  few  moments  the 
older  man  sipped  doubtfully  at  his  gin  and 
water,  and,  as  though  perplexed,  rubbed  his 
hand  over  his  bald  and  shining  head.  "I  told 
her  to  talk  to  you,"  he  said  fretfully. 

"Her?  Who?"  inquired  Ford.  "Oh,  the 
widow?" 

"You  were  right  about  that,"  said  Doctor 
Sparrow;  "she  is  not  a  widow." 

The  reporter  smiled  complacently. 

"Do  you  know  why  I  thought  not?"  he  de 
manded.  "Because  all  the  time  she  was  at 
luncheon  she  kept  turning  over  her  wedding- 
ring  as  though  she  was  not  used  to  it.  It  was  a 
new  ring,  too.  I  told  you  then  she  was  not  a 
widow." 

192 


THE  AMATEUR 

"Do  you  always  notice  things  like  that?" 
asked  the  doctor. 

"Not  on  purpose,"  said  the  amateur  detec 
tive;  "I  can't  help  it.  I  see  teix  things  where 
other  people  see  only  one;  just  as  some  men  run 
ten  times  as  fast  as  other  men.  We  have  tried 
it  out  often  at  the  office;  put  all  sorts  of  junk 
under  a  newspaper,  lifted  the  newspaper  for 
five  seconds,  and  then  each  man  wrote  down 
what  he  had  seen.  Out  of  twenty  things  I 
would  remember  seventeen.  The  next  best 
guess  would  be  about  nine.  Once  I  saw  a  man 
lift  his  coat  collar  to  hide  his  face.  It  was  in 
the  Grand  Central  Station.  I  stopped  him, 
and  told  him  he  was  wanted.  Turned  out  he 
was  wanted.  It  was  Goldberg,  making  his  get 
away  to  Canada." 

"It  is  a  gift,"  said  the  doctor. 

"No,  it's  a  nuisance,"  laughed  the  reporter. 
"I  see  so  many  things  I  don't  want  to  see.  I 
see  that  people  are  wearing  clothes  that  are  not 
made  for  them.  I  see  when  women  are  lying 
to  me.  I  can  see  when  men  are  on  the  verge  of 
a  nervous  breakdown,  and  whether  it  is  drink 
or  debt  or  morphine 

The  doctor  snorted  triumphantly. 

''You  did  not  see  that  the  widow  was  on  the 
verge  of  a  breakdown!" 

"No,"  returned  the  reporter.  "Is  she?  I'm 
sorry." 

193 


THE  AMATEUR 

"If  you're  sorry,"  urged  the  doctor  eagerly, 
"you'll  help  her.  She  is  going  to  London  alone 
to  find  her  husband.  He  has  disappeared.  She 
thinks  that  he  has  been  murdered,  or  that  he  is 
lying  ill  in  some  hospital.  I  told  her  if  any  one 
could  help  her  to  find  him  you  could.  I  had  to 
say  something.  She's  very  ill." 

"To  find  her  husband  in  London?"  repeated 
Ford.  "London  is  a  large  town." 

"She  has  photographs  of  him  and  she  knows 
where  he  spends  his  time,"  pleaded  the  doctor. 
"He  is  a  company  promoter.  It  should  be 
easy  for  you." 

"Maybe  he  doesn't  want  her  to  find  him," 
said  Ford.  "Then  it  wouldn't  be  so  easy  for 


me." 


The  old  doctor  sighed  heavily.  "I  know,"  he 
murmured.  "  I  thought  of  that,  too.  And  she 
is  so  very  pretty." 

"That  was  another  thing  I  noticed,"  said  Ford. 

The  doctor  gave  no  heed. 

"She  must  stop  worrying,"  he  exclaimed,  "or 
she  will  have  a  mental  collapse.  I  have  tried 
sedatives,  but  they  don't  touch  her.  .  I  want  to 
give  her  courage.  She  is  frightened.  She's 
left  a  baby  boy  at  home,  and  she's  fearful  that 
something  will  happen  to  him,  and  she's  fright 
ened  at  being  at  sea,  frightened  at  being  alone 
in  London;  it's  pitiful."  The  old  man  shook 

194 


THE  AMATEUR 

his  head.  "  Pitiful !  Will  you  talk  to  her  now  ?" 
he  asked. 

"Nonsense!"  exclaimed  Ford.  "She  doesn't 
want  to  tell  the  story  of  her  life  to  strange 
young  men." 

"But  it  was  she  suggested  it,"  cried  the 
doctor.  "She  asked  me  if  you  were  Austin 
Ford,  the  great  detective." 

Ford  snorted  scornfully.  "She  did  not!"  he 
protested.  His  tone  was  that  of  a  man  who 
hopes  to  be  contradicted. 

"But  she  did,"  insisted  the  doctor,  "and  I 
told  her  your  specialty  was  tracing  persons. 
Her  face  lightened  at  once;  it  gave  her  hope. 
She  will  listen  to  you.  Speak  very  gently  and 
kindly  and  confidently.  Say  you  are  sure  you 
can  find  him." 

"Where  is  the  lady  now?"  asked  Ford. 

Doctor  Sparrow  scrambled  eagerly  to  his  feet. 
"She  cannot  leave  her  cabin,"  he  answered. 

The  widow,  as  Ford  and  Doctor  Sparrow  still 
thought  of  her,  was  lying  on  the  sofa  that  ran 
the  length  of  the  stateroom,  parallel  with  the 
lower  berth.  She  was  fully  dressed,  except  that 
instead  of  her  bodice  she  wore  a  kimono  that 
left  her  throat  and  arms  bare.  She  had  been 
sleeping,  and  when  their  entrance  awoke  her, 
her  blue  eyes  regarded  them  uncomprehendingly. 
Ford,  hidden  from  her  by  the  doctor,  observed 

195 


THE  AMATEUR 

that  not  only  was  she  very  pretty,  but  that  she 
was  absurdly  young,  and  that  the  drowsy  smile 
she  turned  upon  the  old  man  before  she  noted 
the  presence  of  Ford  was  as  innocent  as  that  of 
a  baby.  Her  cheeks  were  flushed,  her  eyes 
brilliant,  her  yellow  curls  had  become  loosened 
and  were  spread  upon  the  pillow.  When  she 
saw  Ford  she  caught  the  kimono  so  closely 
around  her  throat  that  she  choked.  Had  the 
doctor  not  pushed  her  down  she  would  have 
stood. 

"I  thought,"  she  stammered,  "he  was  an 
old  man." 

The  doctor,  misunderstanding,  hastened  to 
reassure  her.  "Mr.  Ford  is  old  in  experience," 
he  said  soothingly.  "He  has  had  remarkable 
success.  Why,  he  found  a  criminal  once  just 
because  the  man  wore  a  collar.  And  he  found 
Walsh,  the  burglar,  and  Phillips,  the  forger, 
and  a  gang  of  counterfeiters- 
Mrs.  Ashton  turned  upon  him,  her  eyes  wide 
with  wonder.  "But  my  husband,"  she  pro 
tested,  "is  not  a  criminal!" 

"My  dear  lady!"  the  doctor  cried.  "I  did 
not  mean  that,  of  course  not.  I  meant,  if  Mr. 
Ford  can  find  men  who  don't  wish  to  be  found, 
how  easy  for  him  to  find  a  man  who — "  He 
turned  helplessly  to  Ford.  "You  tell  her,"  he 
begged. 

196 


THE  AMATEUR 

Ford  sat  down  on  a  steamer-trunk  that  pro 
truded  from  beneath  the  berth,  and,  turning  to 
the  widow,  gave  her  the  full  benefit  of  his  work 
ing  smile.  It  was  confiding,  helpless,  appealing. 
It  showed  a  trustfulness  in  the  person  to  whom  it 
was  addressed  that  caused  that  individual  to 
believe  Ford  needed  protection  from  a  wicked 
world. 

"Doctor  Sparrow  tells  me,"  began  Ford 
timidly,  "you  have  lost  your  husband's  address; 
that  you  will  let  me  try  to  find  him.  If  I  can 
help  in  any  way  I  should  be  glad." 

The  young  girl  regarded  him,  apparently, 
with  disappointment.  It  was  as  though  Doctor 
Sparrow  had  led  her  to  expect  a  man  full  of 
years  and  authority,  a  man  upon  whom  she 
could  lean;  not  a  youth  whose  smile  seemed  to 
beg  one  not  to  scold  him.  She  gave  Ford  three 
photographs,  bound  together  with  a  string. 

"When  Doctor  Sparrow  told  me  you  could 
help  me  I  got  out  these,"  she  said. 

Ford  jotted  down  a  mental  note  to  the  effect 
that  she  "got  them  out."  That  is,  she  did  not 
keep  them  where  she  could  always  look  at  them. 
That  she  was  not  used  to  look  at  them  was 
evident  by  the  fact  that  they  were  bound  to 
gether. 

The  first  photograph  showed  three  men  stand 
ing  in  an  open  place  and  leaning  on  &  railing. 

197 


THE  AMATEUR 

One  of  them  was  smiling  toward  the  photog 
rapher.  He  was  a  good-looking  young  man  of 
about  thirty  years  of  age,  well  fed,  well  dressed, 
and  apparently  well  satisfied  with  the  world  and 
himself.  Ford's  own  smile  had  disappeared. 
His  eyes  were  alert  and  interested. 

"The  one  with  the  Panama  hat  pulled  down 
over  his  eyes  is  your  husband?"  he  asked. 

''  Yes,"  assented  the  widow.  Her  tone  showed 
slight  surprise. 

"This  was  taken  about  a  year  ago?"  inquired 
Ford.  "Must  have  been,"  he  answered  himself; 
"they  haven't  raced  at  the  Bay  since  then. 
This  was  taken  in  front  of  the  club  stand — 
probably  for  the  Telegraph  ? "  He  lifted  his 
eyes  inquiringly. 

Rising  on  her  elbow  the  young  wife  bent  for 
ward  toward  the  photograph.  "Does  it  say 
that  there?"  she  asked  doubtfully.  "How  did 
you  guess  that?" 

In  his  role  as  chorus  the  ship's  doctor  ex 
claimed  with  enthusiasm:  "Didn't  I  tell  you? 
He's  wonderful." 

Ford  cut  him  off  impatiently.  :<You  never 
saw  a  rail  as  high  as  that  except  around  a  race 
track,"  he  muttered.  "And  the  badge  in  his 
buttonhole  and  the  angle  of  the  stand  all 
show " 

He  interrupted  himself  to  address  the  widow. 
198 


THE  AMATEUR 

''This  is  an  owner's  badge.  What  was  the  name 
of  his  stable?" 

"I  don't  know,"  she  answered.  She  regarded 
the  young  man  with  sudden  uneasiness.  ''They 
only  owned  one  horse,  but  I  believe  that  gave 
them  the  privilege  of— 

"I  see,"  exclaimed  Ford.  "Your  husband  is 
a  bookmaker.  But  in  London  he  is  a  promoter 
of  companies." 

"So  my  friend  tells  me,"  said  Mrs.  Ashton. 
"She's  just  got  back  from  London.  Her  hus 
band  told  her  that  Harry,  my  husband,  was 
always  at  the  American  bar  in  the  Cecil  or  at 
the  Salisbury  or  the  Savoy."  The  girl  shook 
her  head.  "But  a  woman  can't  go  looking  for 
a  man  there,"  she  protested.  "That's,  why  I 
thought  you — 

"That'll  be  all  right,"  Ford  assured  her  hur 
riedly.  "  It's  a  coincidence,  but  it  happens  that 
my  own  work  takes  me  to  these  hotels,  and  if 
your  husband  is  there  I  will  find  him."  He 
returned  the  photographs. 

"Hadn't  you  better  keep  one?"  she  asked. 

"I  won't  forget  him,"  said  the  reporter. 
" Besides"-  —he  turned  his  eyes  toward  the  doctor 
and,  as  though  thinking  aloud,  said — "he  may 
have  grown  a  beard." 

There  was  a  pause. 

The  eyes  of  the  woman  grew  troubled.  Her 
199 


THE  AMATEUR 

lips  pressed  together  as  though   in  a  sudden 
access  of  pain. 

"And  he  may,"  Ford  continued,  "have 
changed  his  name." 

As  though  fearful,  if  she  spoke,  the  tears  would 
fall,  the  girl  nodded  her  head  stiffly. 

Having  learned  what  he  wanted  to  know  Ford 
applied  to  the  wound  a  soothing  ointment  of 
promises  and  encouragement. 

"He's  as  good  as  found,"  he  protested.  "You 
will  see  him  in  a  day,  two  days  after  you  land." 

The  girl's  eyes  opened  happily.  She  clasped 
her  hands  together  and  raised  them. 

"You  will  try?"  she  begged.  "You  will  find 
him  for  me" — she  corrected  herself  eagerly — 
"for  me  and  the  baby?" 

The  loose  sleeves  of  the  kimono  fell  back  to 
her  shoulders  showing  the  white  arms;  the  eyes 
raised  to  Ford  were  glistening  with  tears. 

"Of  course  I  will  find  him,"  growled  the 
reporter. 

He  freed  himself  from  the  appeal  in  the  eyes 
of  the  young  mother  and  left  the  cabin.  The 
doctor  followed.  He  was  bubbling  over  with 
enthusiasm. 

"That  was  fine!"  he  cried.  "You  said  just 
the  right  thing.  There  will  be  no  collapse  now." 

His  satisfaction  was  swept  away  in  a  burst  of 
jisgust. 

200 


THE  AMATEUR 

"The  blackguard!"  he  protested.  'To  de 
sert  a  wife  as  young  as  that  and  as  pretty  as 
that." 

"So  I  have  been  thinking,"  said  the  reporter. 
"I  guess,"  he  added  gravely,  "what  is  going  to 
happen  is  that  before  I  find  her  husband  I  will 
have  got  to  know  him  pretty  well." 

Apparently,  young  Mrs.  Ashton  believed 
everything  would  come  to  pass  just  as  Ford 
promised  it  would  and  as  he  chose  to  order  it; 
for  the  next  day,  with  a  color  not  born  of  fever 
in  her  cheeks  and  courage  in  her  eyes,  she 
joined  Ford  and  the  doctor  at  the  luncheon- 
table.  Her  attention  was  concentrated  on  the 
younger  man.  In  him  she  saw  the  one  person 
who  could  bring  her  husband  to  her. 

"She  acts,"  growled  the  doctor  later  in  the 
smoking-room,  "as  though  she  was  afraid  you 
were  going  to  back  out  of  your  promise  and  jump 
overboard. 

"Don't  think,"  he  protested  violently,  "it's 
you  she's  interested  in.  All  she  sees  in  you  is 
what  you  can  do  for  her.  Can  you  see  that?" 

"Any  one  as  clever  at  seeing  things  as  I 
am,"  returned  the  reporter,  "cannot  help  but 
see  that." 

Later,  as  Ford  was  walking  on  the  upper  deck, 
Mrs.  Ashton  came  toward  him,  beating  her  way 
against  the  wind.  Without  a  trace  of  coquetry 

201 


THE  AMATEUR 

or  self-consciousness,  and  with  a  sigh  of  content, 
she  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm. 

"When  I  don't  see  you,"  she  exclaimed  as 
simply  as  a  child,  "I  feel  so  frightened.  When 
I  see  you  I  know  all  will  come  right.  Do  you 
mind  if  I  walk  with  you?"  she  asked.  "And 
do  you  mind  if  every  now  and  then  I  ask  you  to 
tell  me  again  it  will  all  come  right?" 

For  the  three  days  following  Mrs.  Ashton  and 
Ford  were  constantly  together.  Or,  at  least, 
Mrs.  Ashton  was  constantly  with  Ford.  She 
told  him  that  when  she  sat  in  her  cabin  the  old 
fears  returned  to  her,  and  in  these  moments  of 
panic  she  searched  the  ship  for  him. 

The  doctor  protested  that  he  was  growing 
jealous. 

"I'm  not  so  greatly  to  be  envied,"  suggested 
Ford.  :  'Harry'  at  meals  three  times  a  day  and 
on  deck  all  the  rest  of  the  day  becomes  monoto 
nous.  On  a  closer  acquaintance  with  Harry  he 
seems  to  be  a  decent  sort  of  a  young  man;  at 
least  he  seems  to  have  been  at  one  time  very 
much  in  love  with  her." 

"Well,"  sighed  the  doctor  sentimentally,  "she 
is  certainly  very  much  in  love  with  Harry0" 

Ford  shook  his  head  non-committingly.  "I 
don't  know  her  story,"  he  said.  "Don't  want  to 
know  it." 

The  ship  was  in  the  Channel,  on  her  way  to 
202 


THE  AMATEUR 

Cherbourg,  and  running  as  smoothly  as  a  clock. 
From  the  shore  friendly  lights  told  them  they 
were  nearing  their  journey's  end;  that  the  land 
was  on  every  side.  Seated  on  a  steamer-chair 
next  to  his  in  the  semi-darkness  of  the  deck, 
Mrs.  Ashton  began  to  talk  nervously  and 
eagerly. 

"Now  that  we  are  so  near,"  she  murmured, 
"I  have  got  to  -tell  you  something.  If  you  did. 
not  know  I  would  feel  I  had  not  been  fair.  You 
might  think  that  when  you  were  doing  so  much 
for  me  I  should  have  been  more  honest." 

She  drew  a  long  breath.  "It's  so  hard,"  she 
said. 

"Wait,"  commanded  Ford.  "Is  it  going  to 
help  me  to  find  him?" 

"No." 

"Then  don't  tell  me." 

His  tone  caused  the  girl  to  start.  She  leaned 
toward  him  and  peered  into  his  face.  His  eyes, 
as  he  looked  back  to  her,  were  kind  and  com 
prehending. 

"You  mean,"  said  the  amateur  detective, 
"that  your  husband  has  deserted  you.  That  if 
it  were  not  for  the  baby  you  would  not  try  to 
find  him.  Is  that  it?"* 

Mrs.  Ashton  breathed  quickly  and  turned  her 
face  away. 

"Yes,"  she  whispered.     "That  is  it." 
203 


THE  AMATEUR 

There  was  a  long  pause.  When  she  faced  him 
again  the  fact  that  there  was  no  longer  a  secret 
between  them  seemed  to  give  her  courage. 

"Maybe/'  she  said,  "you  can  understand. 
Maybe  you  can  tell  me  what  it  means.  I  have 
thought  and  thought.  I  have  gone  over  it  and 
over  it  until  when  I  go  back  to  it  my  head 
aches.  I  have  done  nothing  else  but  think,  and 
I  can't  make  it  seem  better.  I  can't  find  any 
excuse.  I  have  had  no  one  to  talk  to,  no  one 
I  could  tell.  I  have  thought  maybe  a  man 
could  understand."  She  raised  her  eyes  appeal- 


"If  you  can  only  make  it  seem  less  cruel. 
Don't  you  see,"  she  cried  miserably,  "I  want  to 
believe;  I  want  to  forgive  him.  I  want  to  think 
he  loves  me.  Oh  !  I  want  so  to  be  able  to  love 
him;  but  how  can  I?  I  can't!  I  can't!" 

In  the  week  in  which  they  had  been  thrown 
together  the  girl  unconsciously  had  told  Ford 
much  about  herself  and  her  husband.  What 
she  now  told  him  was  but  an  amplification  of 
what  he  had  guessed. 

She  had  met  Ashton  a  year  and  a  half  before, 
when  she  had  just  left  school  at  the  convent  and 
had  returned  to  live  with  her  family.  Her  home 
was  at  Far  Rockaway.  Her  father  was  a  cashier 
in  a  bank  at  Long  Island  City.  One  night,  with 
a  party  of  friends,  she  had  been  taken  to  a  dance 

204 


THE  AMATEUR 

at  one  of  the  beach  hotels,  and  there  met  Ash- 
ton.  At  that  time  he  was  one  of  a  firm  that 
was  making  book  at  the  Aqueduct  race-track. 
The  girl  had  met  very  few  men  and  with  them 
was  shy  and  frightened,  but  with  Ashton  she 
found  herself  at  once  at  ease.  That  night  he 
drove  her  and  her  friends  home  in  his  touring- 
car  and  the  next  day  they  teased  her  about  her 
conquest.  It  made  her  very  happy.  After 
that  she  went  to  hops  at  the  hotel,  and  as  the 
bookmaker  did  not  dance,  the  two  young  people 
sat  upon  the  piazza.  Then  Ashton  came  to  see 
her  at  her  own  house,  but  when  her  father 
learned  that  the  young  man  who  had  been 
calling  upon  her  was  a  bookmaker  he  told  him 
he  could  not  associate  with  his  daughter. 

But  the  girl  was  now  deeply  in  love  with 
Ashton,  and  apparently  he  with  her.  He  begged 
her  to  marry  him.  They  knew  that  to  this, 
partly  from  prejudice  and  partly  owing  to  his 
position  in  the  bank,  her  father  would  object. 
Accordingly  they  agreed  that  in  August,  when 
the  racing  moved  to  Saratoga,  they  would  run 
away  and  get  married  at  that  place.  Their 
plan  was  that  Ashton  would  leave  for  Saratoga 
with  the  other  racing  men,  and  that  she  would 
join  him  the  next  day. 

They  had  arranged  to  be  married  by  a  magis 
trate,  and  Ashton  had  shown  her  a  letted  from 

205 


THE  AMATEUR 

one  at  Saratoga  who  consented  to  perform  the 
ceremony.  He  had  given  her  an  engagement 
ring  and  two  thousand  dollars,  which  he  asked 
her  to  keep  for  him,  lest  tempted  at  the  track 
he  should  lose  it. 

But  she  assured  Ford  it  was  not  such  material 
things  as  a  letter,  a  ring,  or  gift  of  money  that 
had  led  her  to  trust  Ashton.  His  fear  of  losing 
her,  his  complete  subjection  to  her  wishes,  his 
happiness  in  her  presence,  all  seemed  to  prove 
that  to  make  her  happy  was  his  one  wish,  and 
that  he  could  do  anything  to  make  her  unhappy 
appeared  impossible. 

They  were  married  the  morning  she  arrived 
at  Saratoga;  and  the  same  day  departed  for 
Niagara  Falls  and  Quebec.  The  honeymoon 
lasted  ten  days.  They  were  ten  days  of  com 
plete  happiness.  No  one,  so  the  girl  declared, 
could  have  been  more  kind,  more  unselfishly 
considerate  than  her  husband.  They  returned 
to  Saratoga  and  engaged  a  suite  of  rooms  at  one 
of  the  big  hotels.  Ashton  was  not  satisfied  with 
the  rooms  shown  him,  and  leaving  her  upstairs 
returned  to  the  office  floor  to  ask  for  others. 

Since  that  moment  his  wife  had  never  seen 
him  nor  heard  from  him. 

On  the  day  of  her  marriage  young  Mrs.  Ashton 
had  written  to  her  father,  asking  him  to  give  her 
his  good  wishes  and  pardon.  He  refused  both. 

206 


THE  AMATEUR 

As  she  had  feared,  he  did  not  consider  that  for  a 
bank  clerk  a  gambler  made  a  desirable  son-in- 
law;  and  the  letters  he  wrote  his  daughter  were 
so  bitter  that  in  reply  she  informed  him  he  had 
forced  her  to  choose  between  her  family  and 
her  husband,  and  that  she  chose  her  husband. 
In  consequence,  when  she  found  herself  deserted 
she  felt  she  could  not  return  to  her  people.  She 
remained  in  Saratoga.  There  she  moved  into 
cheap  lodgings,  and  in  order  that  the  two  thou 
sand  dollars  Ashton  had  left  with  her  might  be 
saved  for  his  child,  she  had  learned  to  typewrite, 
and  after  four  months  had  been  able  to  support 
herself.  Within  the  last  month  a  girl  friend, 
who  had  known  both  Ashton  and  herself  before 
they  were  married,  had  written  her  that  her 
husband  was  living  in  London.  For  the  sake 
of  her  son  she  had  at  once  determined  to  make 
an  effort  to  seek  him  out. 

"The  son,  nonsense!"  exclaimed  the  doctor, 
when  Ford  retold  the  story.  "She  is  not 
crossing  the  ocean  because  she  is  worried  about 
the  future  of  her  son.  She  seeks  her  own  happi 
ness.  The  woman  is  in  love  with  her  husband." 

Ford  shook  his  head. 

"I  don't  know!"  he  objected.  "She's  so 
extravagant  in  her  praise  of  Harry  that  it  seems 
unreal.  It  sounds  insincere.  Then,  again,  when 
I  swear  I  will  find  him  she  shows  a  delight  that 

207 


THE  AMATEUR 

you  might  describe  as  savage,  almost  vindictive. 
As  though,  if  I  did  find  Harry,  the  first  thing  she 
would  do  would  be  to  stick  a  knife  in  him." 

"Maybe,"  volunteered  the  doctor  sadly,  "she 
has  heard  there  is  a  woman  in  the  case.  Maybe 
she  is  the  one  she's  thinking  of  sticking  the  knife 
into?" 

"Well,"  declared  the  reporter,  "if  she  doesn't 
stop  looking  savage  every  time  I  promise  to  find 
Harry  I  won't  find  Harry.  Why  should  I  act 
the  part  of  Fate,  anyway?  How  do  I  know 
that  Harry  hasn't  got  a  wife  in  London  and 
several  in  the  States?  How  do  we  know  he 
didn't  leave  his  country  for  his  country's  good? 
That's  what  it  looks  like  to  me.  How  can  we 
tell  what  confronted  him  the  day  he  went  down 
to  the  hotel  desk  to  change  his  rooms  and, 
instead,  got  into  his  touring-car  and  beat  the 
speed  limit  to  Canada?  Whom  did  he  meet  in 
the  hotel  corridor?  A  woman  with  a  perfectly 
good  marriage  certificate,  or  a  detective  with  a 
perfectly  good  warrant?  Or  did  Harry  find  out 
that  his  bride  had  a  devil  of  a  temper  of  her 
own,  and  that  for  him  marriage  was  a  failure? 
The  widow  is  certainly  a  very  charming  young 
woman,  but  there  may  be  two  sides  to  this." 

"You  are  a  cynic,  sir,"  protested  the  doctor. 

"That  may  be,"  growled  the  reporter,  "but  I 
am  not  a  private  detective  agency,  or  a  matri- 

208 


THE  AMATEUR 

monial  bureau,  and  before  I  hear  myself  saying, 
'Bless  you,  my  children!'  both  of  these  young 
people  will  have  to  show  me  why  they  should 
not  be  kept  asunder." 

II 

On  the  afternoon  of  their  arrival  in  London 
Ford  convoyed  Mrs.  Ashton  to  an  old-established 
private  hotel  in  Craven  Street. 

"Here,"  he  explained,  "you  will  be  within  a 
few  hundred  yards  of  the  place  in  which  your 
husband  is  said  to  spend  his  time.  I  will  be 
living  in  the  same  hotel.  If  I  find  him  you 
will  know  it  in  ten  minutes." 

The  widow  gave  a  little  gasp,  whether  of 
excitement  or  of  happiness  Ford  could  not 
determine. 

"Whatever  happens,"  she  begged,  "will  you 
let  me  hear  from  you  sometimes?  You  are  the 
only  person  I  know  in  London — and — it's  so 
big  it  frightens  me.  I  don't  want  to  be  a 
burden,"  she  went  on  eagerly,  "but  if  I  can 
feel  you  are  within  call — 

"What  you  need,"  said  Ford  heartily,  "is 
less  of  the  doctor's  nerve  tonic  and  sleeping 
drafts,  and  a  little  innocent  diversion.  To-night 
I  am  going  to  take  you  to  the  Savoy  to  sup 
per." 

209 


THE  AMATEUR 

Mrs.  Ashton  exclaimed  delightedly,  and  then 
was  filled  with  misgivings. 

"I  have  nothing  to  wear,"  she  protested, 
"and  over  here,  in  the  evening,  the  women  dress 
so  well.  I  have  a  dinner  gown,"  she  exclaimed, 
"but  it's  black.  Would  that  do?" 

Ford  assured  her  nothing  could  be  better. 
He  had  a  man's  vanity  in  liking  a  woman  with 
whom  he'  was  seen  in  public  to  be  pretty  and 
smartly  dressed,  and  he  felt  sure  that  in  black 
the  blond  beauty  of  Mrs.  Ashton  would  appear 
to  advantage.  They  arranged  to  meet  at 
eleven  on  the  promenade  leading  to  the  Savoy 
supper-room,  and  parted  with  mutual  satis 
faction  at  the  prospect. 

The  finding  of  Harry  Ashton  was  so  simple 
that  in  its  very  simplicity  it  appeared  spectac 
ular. 

On  leaving  Mrs.  Ashton,  Ford  engaged  rooms 
at  the  Hotel  Cecil.  Before  visiting  his  rooms 
he  made  his  way  to  the  American  bar.  He  did 
not  go  there  seeking  Harry  Ashton.  His  object 
was  entirely  self-centred.  His  purpose  was  to 
drink  to  himself  and  to  the  lights  of  London. 
But  as  though  by  appointment,  the  man  he 
had  promised  to  find  was  waiting  for  him.  As 
Ford  entered  the  room,  at  a  table  facing  the 
door  sat  Ashton.  There  was  no  mistaking  him. 

210 


THE  AMATEUR 

He  wore  a  mustache,  but  it  was  disguise.  He 
was  the  same  good-natured,  good-looking  youth 
who,  in  the  photograph  from  under  a  Panama 
hat,  had  smiled  upon  the  world.  With  a  glad 
cry  Ford  rushed  toward  him. 

"Fancy  meeting  you/"  he  exclaimed. 

Mr.  Ashton's  good-natured  smile  did  not  relax. 
He  merely  shook  his  head. 

"Afraid  you  have  made  a  mistake,"  he  said. 

The  reporter  regarded  him  blankly.  His  face 
showed  his  disappointment. 

"Aren't  you  Charles  W.  Garrett,  of  New 
York?"  he  demanded. 

"Not  me,"  said  Mr.  Ashton. 

"But,"  Ford  insisted  in  hurt  tones,  as  though 
he  were  being  trifled  with,  "you  have  been  told 
you  look  like  him,  haven't  you?" 

Mr.  Ashton's  good  nature  was  unassailable. 

"Sorry,"  he  declared,  "never  heard  of  him." 

Ford  became  garrulous,  he  could  not  believe 
two  men  could  look  so  much  alike.  It  was  a 
remarkable  coincidence.  The  stranger  must 
certainly  have  a  drink,  the  drink  intended  for 
his  twin.  Ashton  was  bored,  but  accepted. 
He  was  well  acquainted  with  the  easy  good- 
fellowship  of  his  countrymen.  The  room  in 
which  he  sat  was  a  meeting-place  for  them. 
He  considered  that  they  were  always  giving 
each  other  drinks,  and  not  only  were  they  always 

211 


THE  AMATEUR 

introducing  themselves,  but  saying,  "Shake 
hands  with  my  friend,  Mr.  So-and-So."  After 
five  minutes  they  showed  each  other  photo 
graphs  of  the  children.  This  one,  though  as 
loquacious  as  the  others,  seemed  better  dressed, 
more  "wise";  he  brought  to  the  exile  the 
atmosphere  of  his  beloved  Broadway,  so  Ashton 
drank  to  him  pleasantly. 

"My  name  is  Sydney  Carter,"  he  volunteered. 

As  a  poker-player  skims  over  the  cards  in 
his  hand,  Ford,  in  his  mind's  eye,  ran  over  the 
value  of  giving  or  not  giving  his  right  name. 
He  decided  that  Ashton  would  not  have  heard 
it  and  that,  if  he  gave  a  false  one,  there  was  a 
chance  that  later  Ashton  might  find  out  that 
he  had  done  so.  Accordingly  he  said,  "Mine 
is  Austin  Ford,"  and  seated  himself  at  Ashton's 
table.  Within  ten  minutes  the  man  he  had 
promised  to  pluck  from  among  the  eight  million 
inhabitants  of  London  was  smiling  sympathet 
ically  at  his  jests  and  buying  a  drink. 

On  the  steamer  Ford  had  rehearsed  the  story 
with  which,  should  he  meet  Ashton,  he  would 
introduce  himself.  It  was  one  arranged  to  fit 
with  his  theory  that  Ashton  was  a  crook.  If 
Ashton  were  a  crook  Ford  argued  that  to  at 
once  ingratiate  himself  in  his  good  graces  he 
also  must  be  a  crook.  His  plan  was  to  invite 
Ashton  to  co-operate  with  him  in  some  scheme 

212 


THE  AMATEUR 

that  was  openly  dishonest.  By  so  doing  he 
hoped  apparently  to  place  himself  at  Ashton's 
mercy.  He  believed  if  he  could  persuade  Ash- 
ton  he  was  more  of  a  rascal  than  Ashton  himself, 
and  an  exceedingly  stupid  rascal,  any  distrust 
the  bookmaker  might  feel  toward  him  would 
disappear.  He  made  his  advances  so  openly, 
and  apparently  showed  his  hand  so  carelessly, 
that,  from  being  bored,  Ashton  became  puzzled, 
then  interested;  and  when  Ford  insisted  he 
should  dine  with  him,  he  considered  it  so  nec 
essary  to  find  out  who  the  youth  might  be  who 
was  forcing  himself  upon  him  that  he  accepted 
the  invitation. 

They  adjourned  to  dress  and  an  hour  later,  at 
Ford's  suggestion,  they  met  at  the  Carlton. 
There  Ford  ordered  a  dinner  calculated  to  lull 
his  newly  made  friend  into  a  mood  suited  to 
confidence,  but  which  had  on  Ashton  exactly 
the  opposite  effect.  Merely  for  the  pleasure  of 
his  company,  utter  strangers  were  not  in  the 
habit  of  treating  him  to  strawberries  in  Febru 
ary,  and  vintage  champagne;  and,  in  conse 
quence,  in  Ford's  hospitality  he  saw  only  cause 
for  suspicion.  If,  as  he  had  first  feared,  Ford 
was  a  New  York  detective,  it  was  most  important 
he  should  know  that.  No  one  better  than  Ash 
ton  understood  that,  at  that  moment,  his 
presence  in  New  York  meant,  for  the-  police, 


THE  AMATEUR 

unalloyed  satisfaction,  and  for  himself  undis 
turbed  solitude.  But  Ford  was  unlike  any 
detective  of  his  acquaintance;  and  his  acquain 
tance  had  been  extensive.  It  was  true  Ford  was 
familiar  with  all  the  habits  of  Broadway  and 
the  Tenderloin.  Of  places  with  which  Ashton 
was  intimate,  and  of  men  with  whom  Ashton 
had  formerly  been  well  acquainted,  he  talked 
glibly.  But,  if  he  were  a  detective,  Ashton  con 
sidered,  they  certainly  had  improved  the  class. 

The  restaurant  into  which  for  the  first  time 
Ashton  had  penetrated,  and  in  which  he  felt  ill 
at  ease,  was  to  Ford,  he  observed,  a  matter  of 
course.  Evidently  for  Ford  it  held  no  terrors. 
He  criticised  the  service,  patronized  the  head 
waiters,  and  grumbled  at  the  food;  and  when, 
on  leaving  the  restaurant,  an  Englishman  and 
his  wife  stopped  at  their  table  to  greet  him,  he 
accepted  their  welcome  to  London  without 
embarrassment. 

Ashton,  rolling  his  cigar  between  his  lips, 
observed  the  incident  with  increasing  bewilder 
ment. 

"You've  got  some  swell  friends,"  he  growled. 
"I'll  bet  you  never  met  them  at  Healey's !" 

"I  meet  all  kinds  of  people  in  my  business," 
said  Ford.  "  I  once  sold  that  man  some  mining 
stock,  and  the  joke  of  it  was,"  he  added,  smiling 
knowingly,  "it  turned  out  to  be  good." 

214 


THE  AMATEUR 

Ashton  decided  that  the  psychological  moment 
had  arrived. 

"What  is  your  business?"  he  asked. 

"I'm  a  company  promoter,"  said  Ford  easily. 
"I  thought  I  told  you." 

"  I  did  not  tell  you  that  I  was  a  company  pro 
moter,  too,  did  I?"  demanded  Ashton. 

"No,"  answered  Ford,  with  apparent  surprise. 
"Are  you?  That's  funny." 

Ashton  watched  for  the  next  move,  but  the 
subject  seemed  in  no  way  to  interest  Ford. 
Instead  of  following  it  up  he  began  afresh. 

"Have  you  any  money  lying  idle?"  he  asked 
abruptly.  "About  a  thousand  pounds." 

Ashton  recognized  that  the  mysterious 
stranger  was  about  to  disclose  both  himself 
and  whatever  object  he  had  in  seeking  him  out. 
He  cast  a  quick  glance  about  him. 

"  I  can  always  find  money,"  he  said  guardedly. 
"What's  the  proposition?" 

With  pretended  nervousness  Ford  leaned  for 
ward  and  began  the  story  he  had  rehearsed.  It 
was  a  new  version  of  an  old  swindle  and  to  every 
self-respecting  confidence  man  was  well  known 
as  the  "sick  engineer"  game.  The  plot  is  very 
simple.  The  sick  engineer  is  supposed  to  be  a 
mining  engineer  who,  as  an  expert,  has  examined 
a  gold  mine  and  reported  against  it.  For  his 
services  the  company  paid  him  partly  m  stock. 

215 


THE  AMATEUR 

He  falls  ill  and  is  at  the  point  of  death.  While 
he  has  been  ill  much  gold  has  been  found  in 
the  mine  he  examined,  and  the  stock  which  he 
considers  worthless  is  now  valuable.  Of  this, 
owing  to  his  illness,  he  is  ignorant.  One  confi 
dence  man  acts  the  part  of  the  sick  engineer, 
and  the  other  that  of  a  broker  who  knows  the 
engineer  possesses  the  stock  but  has  no  money 
with  which  to  purchase  it  from  him.  For  a 
share  of  the  stock  he  offers  to  tell  the  dupe  where 
it  and  the  engineer  can  be  found.  They  visit 
the  man,  apparently  at  the  point  of  death,  and 
the  dupe  gives  him  money  for  his  stock.  Later 
the  dupe  finds  the  stock  is  worthless,  and  the 
supposed  engineer  and  the  supposed  broker 
divide  the  money  he  paid  for  it.  In  telling  the 
story  Ford  pretended  he  was  the  broker  and  that 
he  thought  in  Ashton  he  had  found  a  dupe 
who  would  buy  the  stock  from  the  sick  engi 
neer. 

As  the  story  unfolded  and  Ashton  appreciated 
the  part  Ford  expected  him  to  play  in  it,  his 
emotions  were  so  varied  that  he  was  in  danger 
of  apoplexy.  Amusement,  joy,  chagrin,  and 
indignation  illuminated  his  countenance.  His 
cigar  ceased  to  burn,  and  with  his  eyes  opened 
wide  he  regarded  Ford  in  pitying  wonder. 

"  Wait !"  he  commanded.  He  shook  his  head 
imcomprehendingly.  "Tell  me,"  he  asked,  "do 

216 


"Do  I  look  as  easy  as  that,  or  are  you  just  naturally 
foolish? 


THE  AMATEUR 

I  look  as  easy  as  that,  or  are  you  just  naturally 
foolish?" 

Ford  pretended  to  fall  into  a  state  of  great 
alarm. 

"I  don't  understand,"  he  stammered. 

"Why,  son,"  exclaimed  Ashton  kindly,  "I 
was  taught  that  story  in  the  public  schools.  I 
invented  it.  I  stopped  using  it  before  you  cut 
your  *teeth.  Gee!"  he  exclaimed  delightedly. 
"I  knew  I  had  grown  respectable-looking,  but 
I  didn't  think  I  was  so  damned  respectable- 
looking  as  that!"  He  began  to  laugh  silently; 
so  greatly  was  he  amused  that  the  tears  shone 
in  his  eyes  and  his  shoulders  shook. 

"I'm  sorry  for  you,  son,"  he  protested,  "but 
that's  the  funniest  thing  that's  come  my  way  in 
two  years.  And  you  buying  me  hot-house 
grapes,  too,  and  fancy  water !  I  wish  you  could 
see  your  face,"  he  taunted. 

Ford  pretended  to  be  greatly  chagrined. 

"AH  right,"  he  declared  roughly.  "The 
laugh's  on  me  this  time,  but  just  because  I  lost 
one  trick,  don't  think  I  don't  know  my  business. 
Now  that  I'm  wise  to  what  you  are  we  can  work 
together  and ' 

The  face  of  young  Mr.  Ashton  became  in 
stantly  grave.  His  jaws  snapped  like  a  trap. 
When  he  spoke  his  tone  was  assured  and  slightly 
contemptuous. 

217 


THE  AMATEUR 

"Not  with  me  you  can't  work !"  he  said. 

"Don't  think  because  I  fell  down  on  this," 
Ford  began  hotly. 

"  I'm  not  thinking  of  you  at  all,"  said  Ashton. 
"You're  a  nice  little  fellow  all  right,  but  you 
have  sized  me  up  wrong.  I  am  on  the  'straight 
and  narrow'  that  leads  back  to  little  old  New 
York  and  God's  country,  and  I  am  warranted 
not  to  run  off  my  trolley." 

The  words  were  in  the  vernacular,  but  the 
tone  in  which  the  young  man  spoke  rang  so 
confidently  that  it  brought  to  Ford  a  pleasant 
thrill  of  satisfaction.  From  the  first  he  had 
found  in  the  personality  of  the  young  man 
something  winning  and  likable;  a  shrewd  man 
liness  and  tolerant  good-humor.  His  eyes  may 
have  shown  his  sympathy,  for,  in  sudden  con 
fidence,  Ashton  leaned  nearer. 

"It's  like  this,"  he  said.  "Several  years  ago 
I  made  a  bad  break  and,  about  a  year  later, 
they  got  onto  me  and  I  had  to  cut  and  run. 
In  a  month  the  law  of  limitation  lets  me  loose 
and  I  can  go  back.  And  you  can  bet  I'm  going 
back.  I  will  be  on  the  bowsprit  of  the  first  boat. 
I've  had  all  I  want  of  the  'fugitive-from- justice' 
game,  thank  you,  and  I  have  taken  good  care 
to  keep  a  clean  bill  of  health  so  that  I  won't 
have  to  play  it  again.  They've  been  trying  to 
get  me  for  several  years — especially  the  Pinker- 

218 


THE  AMATEUR 

tons.  They  have  chased  me  all  over  Europe. 
Chased  me  with  all  kinds  of  men;  sometimes 
with  women;  they've  tried  everything  except 
blood-hounds.  At  first  I  thought  you  were  a 
'Pink/  that's  why- 

"I!"  interrupted  Ford,  exploding  derisively. 
"That's  good!  That's  one  on  you."  He  ceased 
laughing  and  regarded  Ashton  kindly.  "How 
do  you  know  I'm  not?"  he  asked. 

For  an  instant  the  face  of  the  bookmaker  grew 
a  shade  less  red  and  his  eyes  searched  those  of 
Ford  in  a  quick  agony  of  suspicion.  Ford 
continued  to  smile  steadily  at  him,  and  Ashton 
breathed  with  relief. 

"I'll  take  a  chance  with  you,"  he  said,  "and 
if  you  are  as  bad  a  detective  as  you  are  a  sport 
I  needn't  worry." 

They  both  laughed,  and,  with  sudden  mutual 
liking,  each  raised  his  glass  and  nodded. 

"But  they  haven't  got  me  yet,"  continued 
Ashton,  "and  unless  they  get  me  in  the  next 
thirty  days  I'm  free.  So  you  needn't  think 
'that  I'll  help  you.  It's  'never  again'  for  me. 
The  first  time,  that  was  the  fault  of  the  crowd 
I  ran  with;  the  second  time,  that  would  be  my 
fault.  And  there  ain't  going  to  be  any  second 


time." 


He  shook  his  head  doggedly,  and  with  squared 
shoulders  leaned  back  in  his  chair. 

219 


THE  AMATEUR 

"If  it  only  breaks  right  for  me,"  he  declared, 
"  PII  settle  down  in  one  of  those  'Own-your-own- 
homes,'  forty-five  minutes  from  Broadway,  and 
never  leave  the  wife  and  the  baby." 

The  words  almost  brought  Ford  to  his  feet. 
He  had  forgotten  the  wife  and  the  baby.  He 
endeavored  to  explain  his  surprise  by  a  sudden 
assumption  of  incredulity. 

"Fancy  you  married!"  he  exclaimed. 

" Married ! "  protested  Ashton.  "I'm  married 
to  the  finest  little  lady  that  ever  wore  skirts,  and 
in  thirty-seven  days  I'll  see  her  again.  Thirty- 
seven  days,"  he  repeated  impatiently.  "Gee! 
That's  a  hell  of  a  long  time!" 

Ford  studied  the  young  man  with  increased 
interest.  That  he  was  speaking  sincerely,  from 
the  heart,  there  seemed  no  possible  doubt. 

Ashton  frowned  and  his  face  clouded.  "I've 
not  been  able  to  treat  her  just  right,"  he  volun 
teered.  "  If  she  wrote  me,  the  letters  might  give 
them  a  clew,  and  I  don't  write  her  because  I 
don't  want  her  to  know  all  my  troubles  until 
they're  over.  But  I  know,"  he  added,  "that  five 
minutes'  talk  will  set  it  all  right.  That  is,  if 
she  still  feels  about  me  the  way  I  feel  about  her." 

The  man  crushed  his  cigar  in  his  fingers  and 
threw  the  pieces  on  the  floor.  "  That's  what's 
been  the  worst!"  he  exclaimed  bitterly.  "Not 
hearing,  not  knowing.  It's  been  hell!" 

220 


THE  AMATEUR 

His  eyes  as  he  raised  them  were  filled  with 
suffering,  deep  and  genuine. 

Ford  rose  suddenly.  "Let's  go  down  to  the 
Savoy  for  supper,"  he  said. 

"Supper!"  growled  Ashton.  "What's  the 
use  of  supper?  Do  you  suppose  cold  chicken 
and  a  sardine  can  keep  me  from  thinking?" 

Ford  placed  his  hand  on  the  other's  shoul 
der. 

"You  come  with  me,"  he  said  kindly.  "I'm 
going  to  do  you  a  favor.  I'm  going  to  bring  you 
a  piece  of  luck.  Don't  ask  me  any  questions," 
he  commanded  hurriedly.  "Just  take  my  w^ord 
for  it." 

They  had  sat  so  late  over  their  cigars  that 
when  they  reached  the  restaurant  on  the  Em 
bankment  the  supper-room  was  already  partly 
filled,  and  the  corridors  and  lounge  were  bril 
liantly  lit  and  gay  with  well-dressed  women. 
Ashton  regarded  the  scene  with  gloomy  eyes. 
Since  he  had  spoken  of  his  wife  he  had  remained 
silent,  chewing  savagely  on  a  fresh  cigar.  But 
Ford  was  grandly  excited.  He  did  not  know 
exactly  what  he  intended  to  do.  He  was  pre 
pared  to  let  events  direct  themselves,  but  of 
two  things  he  was  assured:  Mrs.  Ashton  loved 
her  husband,  and  her  husband  loved  her.  As 
the  god  in  the  car  who  was  to  bring  them 
together,  he  felt  a  delightful  responsibility. 

221 


THE  AMATEUR 

The  young  men  left  the  coat-room  and  came 
down  the  short  flight  of  steps  that  leads  to  the 
wide  lounge  of  the  restaurant.  Ford  slightly  in 
advance,  searching  with  his  eyes  for  Mrs.  Ashton, 
found  her  seated  alone  in  the  lounge,  evidently 
waiting  for  him.  At  the  first  glance  she  was 
hardly  to  be  recognized.  Her  low-cut  dinner 
gown  of  black  satin  that  clung  to  her  like  a  wet 
bath  robe  was  the  last  word  of  the  new  fashion; 
and  since  Ford  had  seen  her  her  blond  hair  had 
been  arranged  by  an  artist.  Her  appearance 
was  smart,  elegant,  daring.  She  was  easily  the 
prettiest  and  most  striking-looking  woman  in 
the  room,  and  for  an  instant  Ford  stood  gazing 
at  her,  trying  to  find  in  the  self-possessed  young 
woman  the  deserted  wife  of  the  steamer.  She 
did  not  see  Ford.  Her  eyes  were  following  the 
progress  down  the  hall  of  a  woman,  and  her 
profile  was  toward  him. 

The  thought  of  the  happiness  he  was  about  to 
bring  to  two  young  people  gave  Ford  the  sense 
of  a  genuine  triumph,  and  when  he  turned  to 
Ashton  to  point  out  his  wife  to  him  he  was 
thrilling  with  pride  and  satisfaction.  His  tri 
umph  received  a  bewildering  shock.  Already 
Ashton  had  discovered  the  presence  of  Mrs. 
Ashton.  He  was  standing  transfixed,  lost  to 
his  surroundings,  devouring  her  with  his  eyes. 
And  then,  to  the  amazement  of  Ford,  his  eyes 
filled  with  fear,  doubt,  and  anger.  Swiftly, 

222 


THE  AMATEUR 

with  the  movement  of  a  man  ducking  a  blow, 
he  turned  and  sprang  up  the  stairs  and  into 
the  coat-room.  Ford,  bewildered  and  more 
conscious  of  his  surroundings,  followed  him  less 
quickly,  and  was  in  consequence  only  in  time  to 
see  Ashton,  dragging  his  overcoat  behind  him, 
disappear  into  the  court-yard.  He  seized  his 
own  coat  and  raced  in  pursuit.  As  he  ran  into 
the  court-yard  Ashton,  in  the  Strand,  was  just 
closing  the  door  of  a  taxicab,  but  before  the 
chauffeur  could  free  it  from  the  surrounding 
traffic,  Ford  had  dragged  the  door  open,  and 
leaped  inside.  Ashton  was  huddled  in  the 
corner,  panting,  his  face  pale  with  alarm. 

"What  the  devil  ails  you?"  roared  Ford. 
"Are  you  trying  to  shake  me?  You've  got  to 
come  back.  You  must  speak  to  her." 

"Speak  to  her !"  repeated  Ashton.  His  voice 
was  sunk  to  a  whisper.  The  look  of  alarm  in 
his  face  was  confused  with  one  grim  and  men 
acing.  "Did  you  know  she  was  there?"  he 
demanded  softly.  "Did  you  take  me  there, 
knowing ?" 

"Of  course  I  knew,"  protested  Ford.  "She's 
been  looking  for  you 

His  voice  subsided  in  a  squeak  of  amazement 
and  pain.  Ashton's  left  hand  had  shot  out  and 
swiftly  seized  his  throat.  With  the  other  he 
pressed  an  automatic  revolver  against  Ford's 
shirt  front. 

223 


THE  AMATEUR 

"  I  know  she's  been  looking  for  me,"  the  man 
whispered  thickly.  "For  two  years  she's  been 
looking  for  me.  I  know  all  about  her!  But, 
who  in  bell  are  you?9 

Ford,  gasping  and  gurgling,  protested  loyally. 

"You  are  wrong!"  he  cried.  "She's  been  at 
home  waiting  for  you.  She  thinks  you  have 
deserted  her  and  your  baby.  I  tell  you  she 
loves  you,  you  fool,  she  loves  you!" 

The  fingers  on  his  throat  suddenly  relaxed; 
the  flaming  eyes  of  Ashton,  glaring  into  his, 
wavered  and  grew  wide  with  amazement. 

"Loves  me,"  he  whispered.  "Who  loves 
me?" 

"Your  wife,"  protested  Ford;  "the  girl  at 
the  Savoy,  your  wife." 

Again  the  fingers  of  Ashton  pressed  deep 
around  his  neck. 

"That  is  not  my  wife,"  he  whispered.  His 
voice  was  unpleasantly  cold  and  grim.  "That's 
'Baby  Belle,'  with  her  hair  dyed,  a  detective 
lady  of  the  Pinkertons,  hired  to  find  me.  And 
you  know  it.  Now,  who  are  you  ? ': 

To  permit  him  to  reply  Ashton  released  his 
hand,  but  at  the  same  moment,  in  a  sudden 
access  of  fear,  dug  the  revolver  deeper  into  the 
pit  of  Ford's  stomach. 

"Quick!"  he  commanded.  "Never  mind  the 
girl.  Who  are  you  ?  " 

224 


THE  AMATEUR 

Ford  collapsed  against  the  cushioned  corner 
of  the  cab.  "And  she  begged  me  to  find  you," 
he  roared,  "because  she  loved  you,  because  she 
wanted  to  believe  in  you!"  He  held  his  arms 
above  his  head.  "Go  ahead  and  shoot!"  he 
cried.  "You  want  to  know  who  I  am?"  he 
demanded.  His  voice  rang  with  rage.  "I'm 
an  amateur.  Just  a  natural-born  fool-amateur ! 
Go  on  and  shoot!" 

The  gun  in  Ashton's  hand  sank  to  his  knee. 
Between  doubt  and  laughter  his  face  was  twisted 
in  strange  lines.  The  cab  was  whirling  through 
a  narrow,  unlit  street  leading  to  Covent  Garden. 
Opening  the  door  Ashton  called  to  the  chauffeur, 
and  then  turned  to  Ford. 

''You  get  off  here !"  he  commanded.  "May 
be  you're  a  '  Pink,'  maybe  you're  a  good  fellow. 
I  think  you're  a  good  fellow,  but  I'm  not  taking 
any  chances.  Get  out!" 

Ford  scrambled  to  the  street,  and  as  the  taxi- 
cab  again  butted  itself  forward,  Ashton  leaned 
far  through  the  window.  "Good-by,  son,"  he 
called.  "Send  me  a  picture-postal  card  to 
Paris.  For  I  am  off  to  Maxim's,"  he  cried,  "and 
you  can  go  to " 

"Not  at  all!"  shouted  the  amateur  detective 
indignantly.  "I'm  going  back  to  take  supper 
with  'Baby  Belle'!" 


225 


THE  MAKE-BELIEVE  MAN 

I 

I  HAD  made  up  my  mind  that  when  my  vaca 
tion  came  I  would  spend  it  seeking  adventures. 
I  have  always  wished  for  adventures,  but, 
though  I  am  old  enough — I  was  twenty-five  last 
October — and  have  always  gone  half-way  to 
meet  them,  adventures  avoid  me.  Kinney  says 
it  is  my  fault.  He  holds  that  if  you  want  ad 
ventures  you  must  go  after  them. 

Kinney  sits  next  to  me  at  Joyce  &  Carboy's, 
the  woollen  manufacturers,  where  I  am  a  stenog 
rapher,  and  Kinney  is  a  clerk,  and  we  both  have 
rooms  at  Mrs.  Shaw's  boarding-house.  Kinney 
is  only  a  year  older  than  myself,  but  he  is  always 
meeting  with  adventures.  At  night,  when  I 
have  sat  up  late  reading  law,  so  that  I  may  fit 
myself  for  court  reporting,  and  in  the  hope  that 
some  day  I  may  become  a  member  of  the  bar, 
he  will  knock  at  my  door  and  tell  me  some 
surprising  thing  that  has  just  happened  to  him. 
Sometimes  he  has  followed  a  fire-engine  and 
helped  people  from  a  fire-escape,  or  he  has  pulled 
the  shield  off  a  policeman,  or  at  the  bar  of  the 

226 


THE  MAKE-BELIEVE  MAN 

Hotel  Knickerbocker  has  made  friends  with  a 
stranger,  who  turns  out  to  be  no  less  than  a 
nobleman  or  an  actor.  And  women,  especially 
beautiful  women,  are  always  pursuing  Kinney 
in  taxicabs  and  calling  upon  him  for  assistance. 
Just  to  look  at  Kinney,  without  knowing  how 
clever  he  is  at  getting  people  out  of  their  diffi 
culties,  he  does  not  appear  to  be  a  man  to  whom 
you  would  turn  in  time  of  trouble.  You  would 
think  women  in  distress  would  appeal  to  some 
one  bigger  and  stronger;  would  sooner  ask  a 
policeman.  But,  on  the  contrary,  it  is  to  Kinney 
that  women  always  run,  especially,  as  I  have 
said,  beautiful  women.  Nothing  of  the  sort 
ever  happens  to  me.  I  suppose,  as  Kinney 
says,  it  is  because  he  was  born  and  brought  up 
in  New  York  City  and  looks  and  acts  like  a  New 
York  man,  while  I,  until  a  year  ago,  have  always 
lived  at  Fairport.  Fairport  is  a  very  pretty 
harbor,  but  it  does  not  train  one  for  adventures. 
We  arranged  to  take  our  vacation  at  the  same 
time,  and  together.  At  least  Kinney  so  arranged 
it.  I  see  a  good  deal  of  him,  and  in  looking  for 
ward  to  my  vacation,  not  the  least  pleasant 
feature  of  it  was  that  everything  connected 
with  Joyce  &  Carboy  and  Mrs.  Shaw's  boarding- 
house  would  be  left  behind  me.  But  when 
Kinney  proposed  we  should  go  together,  I  could 
not  see  how,  without  being  rude,  I  couFd  refuse 

227 


THE  MAKE-BELIEVE  MAN 

his  company,  and  when  he  pointed  out  that  for 
an  expedition  in  search  of  adventure  I  could 
not  select  a  better  guide,  I  felt  that  he  was 
right. 

"Sometimes,"  he  said,  "I  can  see  you  don't 
believe  that  half  the  things  I  tell  you  have  hap 
pened  to  me,  really  have  happened.  Now, 
isn't  that  so?" 

To  find  the  answer  that  would  not  hurt  his 
feelings  I  hesitated,  but  he  did  not  wait  for  my 
answer.  He  seldom  does. 

"Well,  on  this  trip,"  he  went  on,  "you  will 
see  Kinney  on  the  job.  You  won't  have  to  take 
my  word  for  it.  You  will  see  adventures  walk 
up  and  eat  out  of  my  hand." 

Our  vacation  came  on  the  first  of  September, 
but  we  began  to  plan  for  it  in  April,  and  up  to 
the  night  before  we  left  New  York  we  never 
ceased  planning.  Our  difficulty  was  that  having 
been  brought  up  at  Fairport,  which  is  on  the 
Sound,  north  of  New  London,  I  was  homesick 
for  a  smell  of  salt  marshes  and  for  the  sight  of 
water  and  ships.  Though  they  were  only 
schooners  carrying  cement,  I  wanted  to  sit  in 
the  sun  on  the  string-piece  of  a  wharf  and  watch 
them.  I  wanted  to  beat  about  the  harbor  in  a 
catboat,  and  feel  the  tug  and  pull  of  the  tiller. 
Kinney  protested  that  that  was  no  way  to  spend 
a  vacation  or  to  invite  adventure.  His  face  was 

228 


THE  MAKE-BELIEVE  MAN 

set  against  Fairport.  The  conversation  of  clam- 
diggers,  he  said,  did  not  appeal  to  him;  and  he 
complained  that  at  Fairport  our  only  chance  of 
adventure  would  be  my  capsizing  the  catboat 
or  robbing  a  lobster-pot.  He  insisted  we  should 
go  to  the  mountains,  where  we  would  meet 
what  he  always  calls  "our  best  people."  In 
September,  he  explained,  everybody  goes  to 
the  mountains  to  recuperate  after  the  enervating 
atmosphere  of  the  sea-shore.  To  this  I  objected 
that  the  little  sea  air  we  had  inhaled  at  Mrs. 
Shaw's  basement  dining-room  and  in  the  sub 
way  need  cause  us  no  anxiety.  And  so,  along 
these  lines,  throughout  the  sleepless,  sultry 
nights  of  June,  July,  and  August,  we  fought  it 
out.  There  was  not  a  summer  resort  within 
five  hundred  miles  of  New  York  City  we  did 
not  consider.  From  the  information  bureaus 
and  passenger  agents  of  every  railroad  leaving 
New  York,  Kinney  procured  a  library  of  time 
tables,  maps,  folders,  and  pamphlets,  illustrated 
with  the  most  attractive  pictures  of  summer 
hotels,  golf  links,  tennis  courts,  and  boat-houses. 
For  two  months  he  carried  on  a  correspondence 
with  the  proprietors  of  these  hotels;  and  iri 
comparing  the  different  prices  they  asked  him 
for  suites  of  rooms  and  sun  parlors  derived 
constant  satisfaction. 

"The  Outlook  House,"  he  would  announce,, 
229 


THE  MAKE-BELIEVE  MAN 

"  wants  twenty-four  dollars  a  day  for  bedroom, 
parlor,  and  private  bath.  While  f)r  the  same 
accommodations  the  Carteret  Arms  asks  only 
twenty.  But  the  Carteret  has  no  tennis  court; 
and  then  again,  the  Outlook  has  no  garage,  nor 
are  dogs  allowed  in  the  bedrooms." 

As  Kinney  could  not  play  lawn  tennis,  and  as 
neither  of  us  owned  an  automobile  or  a  dog,  or 
twenty-four  dollars,  these  details  to  me  seemed 
superfluous,  but  there  was  no  health  in  pointing 
that  out  to  Kinney.  Because,  as  he  himself  says, 
he  has  so  vivid  an  imagination  that  what  he 
lacks  he  can  "make  believe"  he  has,  and  the 
pleasure  of  possession  is  his. 

Kinney  gives  a  great  deal  of  thought  to  his 
clothes,  and  the  question  of  what  he  should  wear 
on  his  vacation  was  upon  his  mind.  When  I 
said  I  thought  it  was  nothing  to  worry  about, 
he  snorted  indignantly.  "You  wouldn't!"  he 
said.  "If  I'd  been  brought  up  in  a  catboat, 
and  had  a  tan  like  a  red  Indian,  and  hair  like  a 
Broadway  blonde,  I  wouldn't  worry  either. 
Mrs.  Shaw  says  you  look  exactly  like  a  British 
peer  in  disguise."  I  had  never  seen  a  British 
peer,  with  or  without  his  disguise,  and  I  admit 
I  was  interested. 

"Why  are  the  girls  in  this  house,"  demanded 
Kinney,  "always  running  to  your  room  to  borrow 
matches?  Because  they  admire  your  clothes? 

230 


THE  MAKE-BELIEVE  MAN 

If  they're  crazy  about  clothes,  why  don't  they 
come  to  me  for  matches?" 

"You  are  always  out  at  night,"  I  said. 

"You  know  that's  not  the  answer,"  he  pro 
tested.  "Why  do  the  typewriter  girls  at  the 
office  always  go  to  you  to  sharpen  their  pencils 
and  tell  them  how  to  spell  the  hard  words? 
Why  do  the  girls  in  the  lunch-rooms  serve  you 
first?  Because  they're  hypnotized  by  your 
clothes?  Is  that  it?" 

"Do  they?"  I  asked;    "I  hadn't  noticed." 

Kinney  snorted  and  tossed  up  his  arms.  "He 
hadn't  noticed ! "  he  kept  repeating.  "  He  hadn't 
noticed!"  For  his  vacation  Kinney  bought  a 
second-hand  suit-case.  It  was  covered  with 
labels  of  hotels  in  France  and  Switzerland. 

"Joe,"  I  said,  "if  you  carry  that  bag  you  will 
be  a  walking  falsehood." 

Kinney's  name  is  Joseph  Forbes  Kinney;  he 
dropped  the  Joseph  because  he  said  it  did  not 
appear  often  enough  in  the  Social  Register,  and 
could  be  found  only  in  the  Old  Testament,  and 
he  has  asked  me  to  call  him  Forbes.  Having 
first  known  him  as  "Joe,"  I  occasionally  forget. 

"My  name  is  not  Joe,"  he  said  sternly,  "and 
I  have  as  much  right  to  carry  a  second-hand  bag 
as  a  new  one.  The  bag  says  it  has  been  to 
Europe.  It  does  not  say  that  I  have  been 
there." 

231 


THE  MAKE-BELIEVE  MAN 

"But,  you  probably  will,"  I  pointed  out,  "and 
then  some  one  who  has  really  visited  those 
places ' 

" Listen  ! "  commanded  Kinney.  "If  you  want 
adventures  you  must  be  somebody  of  impor 
tance.  No  one  will  go  shares  in  an  adventure 
with  Joe  Kinney,  a  twenty-dollar-a-week  clerk, 
the  human  adding  machine,  the  hall-room  boy. 
But  Forbes  Kinney,  Esq.,  with  a  bag  from  Eu 
rope,  and  a  Harvard  ribbon  round  his  hat— 

"Is  that  a  Harvard  ribbon  round  your  hat?" 
I  asked. 

"It  is!"  declared  Kinney;  "and  I  have  a 
Yale  ribbon,  and  a  Turf  Club  ribbon,  too. 
They  come  on  hooks,  and  you  hook  'em  on  to 
match  your  clothes,  or  the  company  you  keep. 
And,  what's  more,"  he  continued,  with  some 
heat,  "I've  borrowed  a  tennis  racket  and  a 
golf  bag  full  of  sticks,  and  you  take  care  you 
don't  give  me  away." 

"I  see,"  I  returned,  "that  you  are  going  to 
get  us  into  a  lot  of  trouble." 

"I  was  thinking,"  said  Kinney,  looking  at  me 
rather  doubtfully,  "it  might  help  a  lot  if  for  the 
first  week  you  acted  as  my  secretary,  and  during 
the  second  week  I  was  your  secretary." 

Sometimes,  when  Mr.  Joyce  goes  on  a  busi 
ness  trip,  he  takes  me  with  him  as  his  private 
stenographer,  and  the  change  from  office  work 

232 


THE  MAKE-BELIEVE  MAN 

is  very  pleasant;  but  I  could  not  see  why  I 
should  spend  one  week  of  my  holiday  writing 
letters  for  Kinney. 

"You  wouldn't  write  any  letters,"  he  ex 
plained.  "But  if  I  could  tell  people  you  were 
/  my  private  secretary,  it  would  naturally  give 
me  a  certain  importance. 

"  If  it  will  make  you  any  happier,"  I  said,  "y°u 
can  tell  people  I  am  a  British  peer  in  disguise." 

"  There  is  no  use  in  being  nasty  about  it," 
protested  Kinney.  "I  am  only  trying  to  show 
you  a  way  that  would  lead  to  adventure." 

"It  surely  would!"  I  assented.  "It  would 
lead  us  to  jail." 

The  last  week  in  August  came,  and,  as  to 
where  we  were  to  go  we  still  were  undecided, 
I  suggested  we  leave  it  to  chance. 

"The  first  thing,"  I  pointed  out,  "is  to  get 
away  from  this  awful  city.  The  second  thing 
is  to  get  away  cheaply.  Let  us  write  down  the 
names  of  the  summer  resorts  to  which  we  can 
travel  by  rail  or  by  boat  for  two  dollars  and 
put  them  in  a  hat.  The  name  of  the  place  we 
draw  will  be  the  one  for  which  we  start  Saturday 
afternoon.  The  idea,"  I  urged,  "is  in  itself 
full  of  adventure." 

Kinney  agreed,  but  reluctantly.  What  chiefly 
disturbed  him  was  the  thought  that  the  places 
near  New  York  to  which  one  could  travel  for 

233 


THE  MAKE-BELIEVE  MAN 

so  little  money  were  not  likely  to  be  fashionable. 

"I  have  a  terrible  fear,"  he  declared,  "that, 
with  this  limit  of  yours,  we  will  wake  up  in 
Asbury  Park/' 

Friday  night  came  and  found  us  prepared  for 
departure,  and  at  midnight  we  held  our  lottery. 
In  a  pillow-case  we  placed  twenty  slips  of  paper, 
on  each  of  which  was  written  the  name  of  a 
summer  resort.  Ten  of  these  places  were  se 
lected  by  Kinney,  and  ten  by  myself.  Kinney 
dramatically  rolled  up  his  sleeve,  and,  plunging 
his  bared  arm  into  our  grab-bag,  drew  out  a 
slip  of  paper  and  read  aloud:  "New  Bedford, 
via  New  Bedford  Steamboat  Line. "  The  choice 
was  one  of  mine. 

"New  Bedford!"  shouted  Kinney.  His  tone 
expressed  the  keenest  disappointment.  "It's  a 
mill  town!"  he  exclaimed.  "It's  full  of  cotton 
mills." 

"That  may  be,"  I  protested.  "But  it's  also 
a  most  picturesque  old  seaport,  one  of  the  oldest 
in  America.  You  can  see  whaling  vessels  at 
the  wharfs  there,  and  wooden  figure-heads,  and 
harpoons 

"Is  this  an  expedition  to  dig  up  buried 
cities,"  interrupted  Kinney,  "or  a  pleasure  trip? 
I  don't  want  to  see  harpoons  !  I  wouldn't  know 
a  harpoon  if  you  stuck  one  into  me.  I  prefer  to 
see  hatpins." 

234 


THE  MAKE-BELIEVE  MAN 

The  Patience  did  not  sail  until  six  o'clock,  but 
we  were  so  anxious  to  put  New  York  behind  us 
that  at  five  we  were  on  board.  Our  cabin  was 
an  outside  one  with  two  berths.  After  placing 
our  suit-cases  in  it,  we  collected  camp-chairs 
and  settled  ourselves  in  a  cool  place  on  the  boat 
deck.  Kinney  had  bought  all  the  afternoon 
papers,  and,  as  later  I  had  reason  to  remember, 
was  greatly  interested  over  the  fact  that  the 
young  Earl  of  Ivy  had  at  last  arrived  in  this 
country.  For  some  weeks  the  papers  had  been 
giving  more  space  than  seemed  necessary  to 
that  young  Irishman  and  to  the  young  lady  he 
was  coming  over  to  marry.  There  had  been 
pictures  of  his  different  country  houses,  pictures 
of  himself;  in  uniform,  in  the  robes  he  wore  at 
the  coronation,  on  a  polo  pony,  as  Master  of 
Fox-hounds.  And  there  had  been  pictures  of 
Miss  Aldrich,  and  of  her  country  places  at 
Newport  and  on  the  Hudson.  From  the  after 
noon  papers  Kinney  learned  that,  having  sailed 
under  his  family  name  of  Meehan,  the  young 
man  and  Lady  Moya,  his  sister,  had  that  morn 
ing  landed  in  New  York,  but  before  the  reporters 
had  discovered  them,  had  escaped  from  the 
wharf  and  disappeared. 

"Inquiries  at  the  different  hotels,"  read 
Kinney  impressively,  '"failed  to  establish  the 
whereabouts  of  his  lordship  and  Lady  Moya, 

235 


THE  MAKE-BELIEVE  MAN 

and  it  is  believed  they  at  once  left  by  train  for 
Newport/  " 

With  awe  Kinney  pointed  at  the  red  funnels 
of  the  Mauretania. 

"  There  is  the  boat  that  brought  them  to 
America,"  he  said.  "I  see,"  he  added,  "that  in 
this  picture  of  him  playing  golf  he  wears  one  of 
those  knit  jackets  the  Eiselbaum  has  just  marked 
down  to  three  dollars  and  seventy-five  cents.  I 
wish—  '  he  added  regretfully. 

"You  can  get  one  at  New  Bedford,"  I  sug 
gested. 

"I  wish,"  he  continued,  "we  had  gone  to 
Newport.  All  of  our  best  people  will  be  there 
for  the  wedding.  It  is  the  most  important 
social  event  of  the  season.  You  might  almost 
call  it  an  alliance." 

I  went  forward  to  watch  them  take  on  the 
freight,  and  Kinney  stationed  himself  at  the  rail 
above  the  passengers'  gangway  where  he  could 
see  the  other  passengers  arrive.  He  had  dressed 
himself  with  much  care,  and  was  wearing  his 
Yale  hat-band,  but  when  a  very  smart-looking 
youth  came  up  the  gangplank  wearing  a  Harvard 
ribbon,  Kinney  hastily  retired  to  our  cabin  and 
returned  with  one  like  it.  A  few  minutes  later 
I  found  him  and  the  young  man  seated  in  camp- 
chairs  side  by  side  engaged  in  a  conversation  in 
which  Kinney  seemed  to  bear  the  greater  part. 

236 


THE  MAKE-BELIEVE  MAN 

Indeed,  to  what  Kinney  was  saying  the  young 
man  paid  not  the  slightest  attention.  Instead, 
his  eyes  were  fastened  on  the  gangplank  below, 
and  when  a  young  man  of  his  own  age,  accom 
panied  by  a  girl  in  a  dress  of  rough  tweed, 
appeared  upon  it,  he  leaped  from  his  seat. 
Then  with  a  conscious  look  at  Kinney,  sank 
back. 

The  girl  in  the  tweed  suit  was  sufficiently 
beautiful  to  cause  any  man  to  rise  and  to  remain 
standing.  She  was  the  most  beautiful  girl  I 
had  ever  seen.  She  had  gray  eyes  and  hair 
like  golden-rod,  worn  in  a  fashion  with  which  I 
was  not  familiar,  and  her  face  was  so  lovely  that 
in  my  surprise  at  the  sight  of  it,  I  felt  a  sudden 
catch  at  my  throat,  and  my  heart  stopped  with 
awe,  and  wonder,  and  gratitude. 

After  a  brief  moment  the  young  man  in  the 
real  Harvard  hat-band  rose  restlessly  and,  with 
a  nod  to  Kinney,  went  below.  I  also  rose  and 
followed  him.  I  had  an  uncontrollable  desire 
to  again  look  at  the  girl  with  the  golden-rod 
hair.  I  did  not  mean  that  she  should  see  me. 
Never  before  had  I  done  such  a  thing.  But 
never  before  had  I  seen  any  one  who  had  moved 
me  so  strangely.  Seeking  her,  I  walked  the 
length  of  the  main  saloon  and  back  again,  but 
could  not  find  her.  The  delay  gave  me  time  to 
see  that  my  conduct  was  impertinent.  The 

237 


THE  MAKE-BELIEVE  MAN 

very  fact  that  she  was  so  lovely  to  look  upon 
should  have  been  her  protection.  It  afforded 
me  no  excuse  to  follow  and  spy  upon  her. 
With  this  thought,  I  hastily  returned  to  the 
upper  deck  to  bury  myself  in  my  book.  If  it 
did  not  serve  to  keep  my  mind  from  the  young 
lady,  at  least  I  would  prevent  my  eyes  from 
causing  her  annoyance. 

I  was  about  to  take  the  chair  that  the  young 
man  had  left  vacant  when  Kinney  objected. 

"He  was  very  much  interested  in  our  conver 
sation,"  Kinney  said,  "and  he  may  return." 

I  had  not  noticed  any  eagerness  on  the  part  of 
the  young  man  to  talk  to  Kinney  or  to  listen  to 
him,  but  I  did  not  sit  down. 

"  I  should  not  be  surprised  a  bit,"  said  Kinney, 
"if  that  young  man  is  no  end  of  a  swell.  He  is 
a  Harvard  man,  and  his  manner  was  most  polite. 
That,"  explained  Kinney,  "is  one  way  you  can 
always  tell  a  real  swell.  They're  not  high  and 
mighty  with  you.  Their  social  position  is  so 
secure  that  they  can  do  as  they  like.  For 
instance,  did  you  notice  that  he  smoked  a  pipe?" 

I  said  I  had  not  noticed  it. 

For  his  holiday  Kinney  had  purchased  a  box 
of  cigars  of  a  quality  more  expensive  than  those 
he  can  usually  afford.  He  was  smoking  one  of 
them  at  the  moment,  and,  as  it  grew  less,  had 
been  carefully  moving  the  gold  band  with  which 

238 


THE  MAKE-BELIEVE  MAN 

it  was  encircled  from  the  lighted  end.  But  as 
he  spoke  he  regarded  it  apparently  with  distaste, 
and  then  dropped  it  overboard. 

"Keep  my  chair,"  he  said,  rising.  "I  am 
going  to  my  cabin  to  get  my  pipe."  I  sat  down 
and  fastened  my  eyes  upon  my  book;  but 
neither  did  I  understand  what  I  was  reading 
nor  see  the  printed  page.  Instead,  before  my 
eyes,  confusing  and  blinding  me,  was  the  lovely, 
radiant  face  of  the  beautiful  lady.  In  per 
plexity  I  looked  up,  and  found  her  standing  not 
two  feet  from  me.  Something  pulled  me  out  of 
my  chair.  Something  made  me  move  it  toward 
her.  I  lifted  my  hat  and  backed  away.  But 
the  eyes  of  the  lovely  lady  halted  me. 

To  my  perplexity,  her  face  expressed  both  sur 
prise  and  pleasure.  It  was  as  though  either 
she  thought  she  knew  me,  or  that  I  reminded 
her  of  some  man  she  did  know.  Were  the  latter 
the  case,  he  must  have  been  a  friend,  for  the  way 
in  which  she  looked  at  me  was  kind.  And  there 
was,  besides,  the  expression  of  surprise  and  as 
though  something  she  saw  pleased  her.  Maybe 
it  was  the  quickness  with  which  I  had  offered 
my  chair.  Still  looking  at  me,  she  pointed  to 
one  of  the  sky-scrapers. 

"Could  you  tell  me,"  she  asked,  "the  name  of 
that  building?"  Had  her  question  not  proved 
rt,  her  voice  would  have  told  me  not  only  that 

239 


THE  MAKE-BELIEVE  MAN 

she  was  a  stranger,  but  that  she  was  Irish.  It 
was  particularly  soft,  low,  and  vibrant.  It 
made  the  commonplace  question  she  asked  sound 
as  though  she  had  sung  it.  I  told  her  the  name 
of  the  building,  and  that  farther  uptown,  as 
she  would  see  when  we  moved  into  midstream, 
there  was  another  still  taller.  She  listened, 
regarding  me  brightly,  as  though  interested; 
but  before  her  I  was  embarrassed,  and,  fearing 
I  intruded,  I  again  made  a  movement  to  go 
away.  With  another  question  she  stopped  me. 
I  could  see  no  reason  for  her  doing  so,  but  it 
was  almost  as  though  she  had  asked  the  question 
only  to  detain  me. 

"What  is  that  odd  boat,"  she  said,  " pumping 
water  into  the  river?" 

I  explained  that  it  was  a  fire-boat  testing  her 
hose-lines,  and  then  as  we  moved  into  the 
channel  I  gained  courage,  and  found  myself 
pointing  out  the  Statue  of  Liberty,  Governor's 
Island,  and  the  Brooklyn  Bridge.  The  fact 
that  it  was  a  stranger  who  was  talking  did  not 
seem  to  disturb  her.  I  cannot  tell  how  she 
conveyed  the  idea,  but  I  soon  felt  that  she  felt, 
no  matter  what  unconventional  thing  she  chose 
to  do,  people  would  not  be  rude,  or  misunder 
stand. 

I  considered  telling  her  my  name.  At  first  it 
seemed  that  that  would  be  more  polite.  Then  i 

240 


THE  MAKE-BELIEVE  MAN 

saw  to  do  so  would  be  forcing  myself  upon  her, 
that  she  was  interested  in  me  only  as  a  guide  to 
New  York  Harbor. 

When  we  passed  the  Brooklyn  Navy  Yard  I 
talked  so  much  and  so  eagerly  of  the  battle 
ships  at  anchor  there  that  the  lady  must  have 
thought  I  had  followed  the  sea,  for  she  asked: 
"Are  you  a  sailorman?" 

It  was  the  first  question  that  was  in  any  way 
personal. 

"I  used  to  sail  a  catboat,"  I  said. 

My  answer  seemed  to  puzzle  her,  and  she 
frowned.  Then  she  laughed  delightedly,  like 
one  having  made  a  discovery. 

"You  don't  say  'sailorman,"  she  said. 
"What  do  you  ask,  over  here,  when  you  want  to 
know  if  a  man  is  in  the  navy?" 

She  spoke  as  though  we  were  talking  a  differ 
ent  language. 

"We  ask  if  he  is  in  the  navy,"  I  answered. 

She  laughed  again  at  that,  quite  as  though  I 
had  said  something  clever. 

"And  you  are  not?" 

"No,"  I  said,  "I  am  in  Joyce  &  Carboy's 
office.  I  am  a  stenographer." 

Again  my  answer  seemed  both  to  puzzle  and 
to  surprise  her.  She  regarded  me  doubtfully. 
I  could  see  that  she  thought,  for  some  reason,  I 
was  misleading  her. 

241 


THE  MAKE-BELIEVE  MAN 

"In  an  office?"  she  repeated.  Then,  as 
though  she  had  caught  me,  she  said:  "How  do 
you  keep  so  fit?"  She  asked  the  question 
directly,  as  a  man  would  have  asked  it,  and  as 
she  spoke  I  was  conscious  that  her  eyes  were 
measuring  me  and  my  shoulders,  as  though 
she  were  wondering  to  what  weight  I  could 
strip. 

"It's  only  lately  I've  worked  in  an  office,"  I 
said.  "Before  that  I  always  worked  out-of- 
doors;  oystering  and  clamming  and,  in  the  fall, 
scalloping.  And  in  the  summer  I  played  ball 
on  a  hotel  nine." 

I  saw  that  to  the  beautiful  lady  my  explanation 
carried  no  meaning  whatsoever,  but  before  I 
could  explain,  the  young  man  with  whom  she 
had  come  on  board  walked  toward  us. 

Neither  did  he  appear  to  find  in  her  talking 
to  a  stranger  anything  embarrassing.  He  halted 
and  smiled.  His  smile  was  pleasant,  but  entirely 
vague.  In  the  few  minutes  I  was  with  him,  I 
learned  that  it  was  no  sign  that  he  was  secretly 
pleased.  It  was  merely  his  expression.  It  was 
as  though  a  photographer  had  said:  "Smile, 
please,"  and  he  had  smiled. 

When  he  joined  us,  out  of  deference  to  the 
young  lady  I  raised  my  hat,  but  the  youth  did 
not  seem  to  think  that  outward  show  of  respect 
was  necessary,  and  kept  his  hands  in  his  pockets. 

242 


THE  MAKE-BELIEVE  MAN 

Neither  did  he  cease  smoking.  His  first  remark 
to  the  lovely  lady  somewhat  startled  me. 

"Have  you  got  a  brass  bed  in  your  room?"  he 
asked.  The  beautiful  lady  said  she  had. 

"So've  I,"  said  the  young  man.  "They  do 
you  rather  well,  don't  they  ?  And  it's  only  three 
dollars.  How  much  is  that?" 

"  Four  times  three  would  be  twelve,"  said  the 
lady.  "Twelve  shillings." 

The  young  man  was  smoking  a  cigarette  in  a 
long  amber  cigarette-holder.  I  never  had  seen 
one  so  long.  He  examined  the  end  of  his  ciga 
rette-holder,  and,  apparently  surprised  and  re 
lieved  at  finding  a  cigarette  there,  again  smiled 
contentedly. 

The  lovely  lady  pointed  at  the  marble  shaft 
rising  above  Madison  Square. 

"That  is  the  tallest  sky-scraper,"  she  said, 
"in  New  York."  I  had  just  informed  her  of 
that  fact.  The  young  man  smiled  as  though  he 
were  being  introduced  to  the  building,  but 
exhibited  no  interest. 

"Is  it?"  he  remarked.  His  tone  seemed  to 
show  that  had  she  said,  "That  is  a  rabbit,"  he 
would  have  been  equally  gratified. 

"Some  day,"  he  stated,  with  the  same  startling 
abruptness  with  which  he  had  made  his  first 
remark,  "our  war-ships  will  lift  the  roofs  off 
those  sky-scrapers." 

243 


THE  MAKE-BELIEVE  MAN 

The  remark  struck  me  in  the  wrong  place.  It 
was  unnecessary.  Already  I  resented  the  man 
ner  of  the  young  man  toward  the  lovely  lady. 
It  seemed  to  me  lacking  in  courtesy.  He  knew 
her,  and  yet  treated  her  with  no  deference, 
while  I,  a  stranger,  felt  so  grateful  to  her  for 
being  what  I  knew  one  with  such  a  face  must  be, 
that  I  could  have  knelt  at  her  feet.  So  I  rather 
resented  the  remark. 

"  If  the  war-ships  you  send  over  here,"  I  said 
doubtfully,  "aren't  more  successful  in  lifting 
things  than  your  yachts,  you'd  better  keep 
them  at  home  and  save  coal!" 

Seldom  have  I  made  so  long  a  speech  or  so 
rude  a  speech,  and  as  soon  as  I  had  spoken,  on 
account  of  the  lovely  lady,  I  was  sorry. 

But  after  a  pause  of  half  a  second  she  laughed 
delightedly. 

"  I  see,"  she  cried,  as  though  it  were  a  sort  of  a 
game.  "He  means  Lipton!  We  can't  lift  the 
cup,  we  can't  lift  the  roofs.  Don't  you  see, 
Stumps?"  she  urged.  In  spite  of  my  rude  re 
mark,  the  young  man  she  called  Stumps  had 
continued  to  smile  happily.  Now  his  expression 
changed  to  one  of  discomfort  and  utter  gloom, 
and  then  broke  out  into  a  radiant  smile. 

"I  say!"  he  cried.  "That's  awfully  good: 
'If  your  war-ships  aren't  any  better  at  lifting 
things — *  Oh,  I  say,  really,"  he  protested, 

244 


THE  MAKE-BELIEVE  MAN 

"that's  awfully  good."  He  seemed  to  be  afraid 
I  would  not  appreciate  the  rare  excellence  of  my 
speech.  "You  know,  really/'  he  pleaded,  "it 
is  awfully  good!" 

We  were  interrupted  by  the  sudden  appear 
ance,  in  opposite  directions,  of  Kinney  and  the 
young  man  with  the  real  hat-band.  Both  were 
excited  and  disturbed.  At  the  sight  of  the 
young  man,  Stumps  turned  appealingly  to  the 
golden-rod  girl.  He  groaned  aloud,  and  his 
expression  was  that  of  a  boy  who  had  been 
caught  playing  truant. 

"Oh,  Lord!"  he  exclaimed,  "what's  he  huffy 
about  now?  He  told  me  I  could  come  on  deck 
as  soon  as  we  started." 

The  girl  turned  upon  me  a  sweet  and  lovely 
smile  and  nodded.  Then,  with  Stumps  at  her 
side,  she  moved  to  meet  the  young  man.  When 
he  saw  them  coming  he  halted,  and,  when  they 
joined  him,  began  talking  earnestly,  almost 
angrily.  As  he  did  so,  much  to  my  bewilder 
ment,  he  glared  at  me.  At  the  same  moment 
Kinney  grabbed  me  by  the  arm. 

"Come  below!"  he  commanded.  His  tone 
was  hoarse  and  thrilling  with  excitement. 

"Our  adventures,"  he  whispered,  "have 
begun!" 


245 


II 


I  FELT,  for  me,  adventures  had  already  begun, 
for  my  meeting  with  the  beautiful  lady  was  the 
event  of  niy  life,  and  though  Kinney  and  I  had 
agreed  to  share  our  adventures,  of  this  one  I 
knew  I  could  not  even  speak  to  him.  I  wanted 
to  be  alone,  where  I  could  delight  in  it,  where  I 
could  go  over  what  she  had  said;  what  I  had 
said.  I  would  share  it  with  no  one.  It  was 
too  wonderful,  too  sacred.  But  Kinney  would 
not  be  denied.  He  led  me  to  our  cabin  and 
locked  the  door. 

"I  am  sorry,'*  he  began,  "but  this  adventure 
is  one  I  cannot  share  with  you."  The  remark 
was  so  in  keeping  with  my  own  thoughts  that 
with  sudden  unhappy  doubt  I  wondered  if 
Kinney,  too,  had  felt  the  charm  of  the  beautiful 
lady.  But  he  quickly  undeceived  me. 

"I  have  been  doing  a  little  detective  work," 
he  said.  His  voice  was  low  and  sepulchral. 
"And  I  have  come  upon  a  real  adventure. 
There  are  reasons  why  I  cannot  share  it  with 
you,  but  as  it  develops  you  can  follow  it.  About 
half  an  hour  ago,"  he  explained,  "I  came  here 
to  get  my  pipe.  The  window  was  open.  The 

246 


THE  MAKE-BELIEVE  MAN 

lattice  was  only  partly  closed.  Outside  was 
that  young  man  from  Harvard  who  tried  to 
make  my  acquaintance,  and  the  young  English 
man  who  came  on  board  with  that  blonde." 
Kinney  suddenly  interrupted  himself.  "You 
were  talking  to  her  just  now,"  he  said.  I 
hated  to  hear  him  speak  of  the  Irish  lady  as 
"that  blonde."  I  hated  to  hear  him  speak  of 
her  at  all.  So,  to  shut  him  off,  I  answered 
briefly:  "She  asked  me  about  the  Singer  Build- 
ing." 

"I  see,"  said  Kinney.  "Well,  these  two  men 
were  just  outside  my  window,  and,  while  I  was 
searching  for  my  pipe,  I  heard  the  American 
speaking.  He  was  very  excited  and  angry. 
*I  tell  you/  he  said,  'every  boat  and  railroad 
station  is  watched.  You  won't  be  safe  till  we 
get  away  from  New  York.  You  must  go  to 
your  cabin  and  stay  there.'  And  the  other  one 
answered:  'I  am  sick  of  hiding  and  dodging." 

Kinney  paused  dramatically  and  frowned. 

"Well,"  I  asked,  "what  of  it?" 

"What  of  it?"  he  cried.  He  exclaimed  aloud 
with  pity  and  impatience. 

"No  wonder,"  he  cried,  "you  never  have  ad 
ventures.  Why,  it's  plain  as  print.  They  are 
criminals  escaping.  The  Englishman  certainly 
is  escaping." 

I  was  concerned  only  for  the  lovely  lady,  bwt 
247 


THE  MAKE-BELIEVE  MAN 

I    asked:    "You    mean    the    Irishman    called 
Stumps?" 

"Stumps!"  exclaimed  Kinney.  "What  a 
strange  name.  Too  strange  to  be  true.  It's  an 
alias!"  I  was  incensed  that  Kinney  should 
charge  the  friends  of  the  lovely  lady  with  being 
criminals.  Had  it  been  any  one  else  I  would 
have  at  once  resented  it,  but  to  be  angry  with 
Kinney  is  difficult.  I  could  not  help  but  remem 
ber  that  he  is  the  slave  of  his  own  imagination. 
It  plays  tricks  and  runs  away  with  him.  And 
if  it  leads  him  to  believe  innocent  people  are 
criminals,  it  also  leads  him  to  believe  that  every 
woman  in  the  subway  to  whom  he  gives  his  seat 
is  a  great  lady,  a  leader  of  society  on  her  way  to 
work  in  the  slums. 

"Joe!"  I  protested.  "Those  men  aren't 
criminals.  I  talked  to  that  Irishman,  and  he 
hasn't  sense  enough  to  be  a  criminal." 

"The  railroads  are  watched,"  repeated  Kin 
ney.  "Do  honest  men  care  a  darn  whether  the 
railroad  is  watched  or  not?  Do  you  care?  Do 
I  care?  And  did  you  notice  how  angry  the 
American  got  when  he  found  Stumps  talking 
with  you?" 

I  had  noticed  it;  and  I  also  recalled  the  fact 
that  Stumps  had  said  to  the  lovely  lady:  "He 
told  me  I  could  come  on  deck  as  soon  as  we 
started." 

248 


THE  MAKE-BELIEVE  MAN 

The  words  seemed  to  bear  out  what  Kinney 
claimed  he  had  overheard.  But  not  wishing  to 
encourage  him,  of  what  I  had  heard  I  said 
nothing. 

"He  may  be  dodging  a  summons,"  I  sug 
gested.  "He  is  wanted,  probably,  only  as  a 
witness.  It  might  be  a  civil  suit,  or  his  chauf 
feur  may  have  hit  somebody." 

Kinney  shook  his  head  sadly. 

"Excuse  me,"  he  said,  "but  I  fear  you  lack 
imagination.  Those  men  are  rascals,  dangerous 
rascals,  and  the  woman  is  their  accomplice. 
What  they  have  done  I  don't  know,  but  I  have 
already  learned  enough  to  arrest  them  as 
suspicious  characters.  Listen!  Each  of  them 
has  a  separate  state-room  forward.  The  window 
of  the  American's  room  was  open,  and  his  suit 
case  was  on  the  bed.  On  it  were  the  initials 
H.  P.  A.  The  state-room  is  number  twenty- 
four,  but  when  I  examined  the  purser's  list, 
pretending  I  wished  to  find  out  if  a  friend  of 
mine  was  on  board,  I  found  that  the  man  in 
twenty-four  had  given  his  name  as  James 
''  Preston.  Now,"  he  demanded,  "why  should 
one  of  them  hide  under  an  alias  and  the  other 
be  afraid  to  show  himself  until  we  leave  the 
wharf?"  He  did  not  wait  for  my  answer. 
"I  have  been  talking  to  Mr.  H.  P.  A.,  alias 
Preston,"  he  continued.  "I  pretended  I  was  a 

249 


THE  MAKE-BELIEVE  MAN 

person  of  some  importance.  I  hinted  I  was 
rich.  My  object,"  Kinney  added  hastily,  "was 
to  encourage  him  to  try  some  of  his  tricks  on 
me;  to  try  to  rob  me;  so  that  I  could  obtain 
evidence.  I  also,"  he  went  on,  with  some 
embarrassment,  "told  him  that  you,  too,  were 
wealthy  and  of  some  importance." 

I  thought  of  the  lovely  lady,  and  I  felt  myself 
blushing  indignantly. 

"You  did  very  wrong,"  I  cried;  "you  had  no 
right !  You  may  involve  us  both  most  unpleas 
antly." 

"You  are  not  involved  in  any  way,"  protested 
Kinney.  "As  soon  as  we  reach  New  Bedford 
you  can  slip  on  shore  and  wait  for  me  at  the 
hotel.  When  I've  finished  with  these  gentlemen, 
I'll  join  you." 

"Finished  with  them!"  I  exclaimed.  "What 
do  you  mean  to  do  to  them?" 

"Arrest  them!"  cried  Kinney  sternly,  "as 
soon  as  they  step  upon  the  wharf!" 

"You  can't  do  it!"  I  gasped. 

"I  have  done  it!"  answered  Kinney.  "It's 
good  as  done.  I  have  notified  the  chief  of  police 
at  New  Bedford,"  he  declared  proudly,  "to  meet 
me  at  the  wharf.  I  used  the  wireless.  Here  is 
my  message." 

From  his  pocket  he  produced  a  paper  and,  with 
great  importance,  read  aloud:  "Meet  me  at 

250 


THE  MAKE-BELIEVE  MAN 

wharf  on  arrival  steamer  Patience.  Two  well- 
known  criminals  on  board  escaping  New  York 
police.  Will  personally  lay  charges  against 
them. — Forbes  Kinney." 

As  soon  as  I  could  recover  from  my  surprise, 
I  made  violent  protest.  I  pointed  out  to  Kinney 
that  his  conduct  was  outrageous,  that  in  making 
such  serious  charges,  on  such  evidence,  he  would 
lay  himself  open  to  punishment. 

He  was  not  in  the  least  dismayed. 

"I  take  it  then,"  he  said  importantly,  "that 
you  do  not  wish  to  appear  against  them?" 

"I  don't  wish  to  appear  in  it  at  all!"  I  cried. 
r<  You've  no  right  to  annoy  that  young  lady. 
You  must  wire  the  police  you  are  mistaken." 

"I  have  no  desire  to  arrest  the  woman,"  said 
Kinney  stiffly.  "  In  my  message  I  did  not  men 
tion  her.  If  you  want  an  adventure  of  your  own, 
you  might  help  her  to  escape  while  I  arrest  her 
accomplices." 

"I  object,"  I  cried,  "to  your  applying  the 
word  'accomplice'  to  that  young  lady.  And 
suppose  they  are  criminals,"  I  demanded,  "how 
will  arresting  them  help  you?" 

Kinney's  eyes  flashed  with  excitement. 

"Think  of  the  newspapers,"  he  cried;  "they'll 
be  full  of  it!"  Already  in  imagination  he  saw 
the  headlines.  "  'A  Clever  Haul !'"  he  quoted. 
"  *  Noted  band  of  crooks  elude  New  York  police, 

251 


THE  MAKE-BELIEVE  MAN 

but  are  captured  by  Forbes  Kinney."  He 
sighed  contentedly.  "And  they'll  probably  print 
my  picture,  too,"  he  added. 

I  knew  I  should  be  angry  with  him,  but  instead 
I  could  only  feel  sorry.  I  have  known  Kinney 
for  a  year,  and  I  have  learned  that  his  "make- 
believe"  is  always  innocent.  I  suppose  that  he 
is  what  is  called  a  snob,  but  with  him  snobbish 
ness  is  not  an  unpleasant  weakness.  In  his  case 
it  takes  the  form  of  thinking  that  people  who 
have  certain  things  he  does  not  possess  are 
better  than  himself;  and  that,  therefore,  they 
must  be  worth  knowing,  and  he  tries  to  make 
their  acquaintance.  But  he  does  not  think 
that  he  himself  is  better  than  any  one.  His 
life  is  very  bare  and  narrow.  In  consequence, 
on  many  things  he  places  false  values.  As,  for 
example,  his  desire  to  see  his  name  in  the  news 
papers  even  as  an  amateur  detective.  So,  while 
I  was  indignant  I  also  was  sorry. 

"Joe,"  I  said,  "you're  going  to  get  yourself 
into  an  awful  lot  of  trouble,  and  though  I  am 
not  in  this  adventure,  you  know  if  I  can  help 
you  I  will." 

He  thanked  me  and  we  went  to  the  dining- 
saloon.  There,  at  a  table  near  ours,  we  saw 
the  lovely  lady  and  Stumps  and  the  American. 
She  again  smiled  at  me,  but  this  time,  so  it 
seemed,  a  little  doubtfully. 

252 


THE  MAKE-BELIEVE  MAN 

In  the  mind  of  the  American,  on  the  contrary, 
there  was  no  doubt.  He  glared  both  at  Kinney 
and  myself,  as  though  he  would  like  to  boil 
us  in  oil. 

After  dinner,  in  spite  of  my  protests,  Kinney 
set  forth  to  interview  him  and,  as  he  described 
it,  to  "lead  him  on"  to  commit  himself.  I 
feared  Kinney  was  much  more  likely  to  commit 
himself  than  the  other,  and  when  I  saw  them 
seated  together  I  watched  from  a  distance  with 
much  anxiety. 

An  hour  later,  while  I  was  alone,  a  steward 
told  me  the  purser  would  like  to  see  me.  I  went 
to  his  office,  and  found  gathered  there  Stumps, 
his  American  friend,  the  night  watchman  of  the 
boat,  and  the  purser.  As  though  inviting  him 
to  speak,  the  purser  nodded  to  the  American. 
That  gentleman  addressed  me  in  an  excited  and 
belligerent  manner. 

"My  name  is  Aldrich,"  he  said;  "I  want  to 
know  what  your  name  is?" 

I  did  not  quite  like  his  tone,  nor  did  I  like 
being  summoned  to  the  purser's  office  to  be 
questioned  by  a  stranger. 

"Why?"  I  asked. 

"Because,"  said  Aldrich,  "it  seems  you  have 
several  names.  As  one  of  them  belongs  to  this 
gentleman"-  —he  pointed  at  Stumps — "he  wants 
to  know  why  you  are  using  it." 

-53 


THE  MAKE-BELIEVE  MAN 

I  looked  at  Stumps  and  he  greeted  me  with  the 
vague  and  genial  smile  that  was  habitual  to 
him,  but  on  being  caught  in  the  act  by  Aldrich 
he  hurriedly  frowned. 

"I  have  never  used  any  name  but  my  own,"  I 
said;  "and,"  I  added  pleasantly,  "if  I  were 
choosing  a  name  I  wouldn't  choose  'Stumps,' 

Aldrich  fairly  gasped. 

"His  name  is  not  Stumps!"  he  cried  indig 
nantly.  "He  is  the  Earl  of  Ivy!" 

He  evidently  expected  me  to  be  surprised  at 
this,  and  I  was  surprised.  I  stared  at  the 
much-advertised  young  Irishman  with  interest. 

Aldrich  misunderstood  my  silence,  and  in  a 
triumphant  tone,  which  was  far  from  pleasant, 
continued:  "So  you  see,"  he  sneered,  "when  you 
chose  to  pass  yourself  off  as  Ivy  you  should  have 
picked  out  another  boat." 

The  thing  was  too  absurd  for  me  to  be  angry, 
and  I  demanded  with  patience:  "But  why 
should  I  pass  myself  off  as  Lord  Ivy?" 

"  That's  what  we  intend  to  find  out,"  snapped 
Aldrich.  "Anyway,  we've  stopped  your  game 
for  to-night,  and  to-morrow  you  can  explain  to 
the  police!  Your  pal,"  he  taunted,  "has  told 
every  one  on  this  boat  that  you  are  Lord  Ivy, 
and  he's  told  me  lies  enough  about  himselj  to 
prove  he's  an  impostor,  too!" 

I  saw  what  had  happened,  and  that  if  I  were 
254 


THE  MAKE-BELIEVE  MAN 

to  protect  poor  Kinney  I  must  not,  as  I  felt 
inclined,  use  my  fists,  but  my  head.  I  laughed 
with  apparent  unconcern,  and  turned  to  the 
purser. 

"Oh,  that's  it,  is  it?"  I  cried.  "I  might 
have  known  it  was  Kinney;  he's  always  playing 
practical  jokes  on  me."  I  turned  to  Aldrich. 
"My  friend  has  been  playing  a  joke  on  you, 
too,"  I  said.  "He  didn't  know  who  you  were, 
but  he  saw  you  were  an  Anglomaniac,  and  he's 
been  having  fun  with  you!" 

" Has  he? "  roared  Aldrich.  He  reached  down 
into  his  pocket  and  pulled  out  a  piece  of  paper. 
"This,"  he  cried,  shaking  it  at  me,  "is  a  copy  of 
a  wireless  that  I've  just  sent  to  the  chief  of  police 
at  New  Bedford." 

With  great  satisfaction  he  read  it  in  a  loud  and 
threatening  voice:  "Two  impostors  on  this  boat 
representing  themselves  to  be  Lord  Ivy,  my 
future  brother-in-law,  and  his  secretary.  Lord 
Ivy  himself  on  board.  Send  police  to  meet  boat. 
We  will  make  charges. — Henry  Philip  Aldrich." 

It  occurred  to  me  that  after  receiving  two  such 
sensational  telegrams,  and  getting  out  of  bed  to 
meet  the  boat  at  six  in  the  morning,  the  chief  of 
police  would  be  in  a  state  of  mind  to  arrest 
almost  anybody,  and  that  his  choice  would 
certainly  fall  on  Kinney  and  myself.  It  was 
ridiculous,  but  it  also  was  likely  to  prove 

255 


THE  MAKE-BELIEVE  MAN 

extremely  humiliating.  So  I  said,  speaking  to 
Lord  Ivy:  "There's  been  a  mistake  all  around; 
send  for  Mr.  Kinney  and  I  will  explain  it  to 
you."  Lord  Ivy,  who  was  looking  extremely 
bored,  smiled  and  nodded,  but  young  Aldrich 
laughed  ironically. 

"Mr.  Kinney  is  in  his  state-room,"  he  said, 
"with  a  steward  guarding  the  door  and  window. 
You  can  explain  to-morrow  to  the  police." 

I  rounded  indignantly  upon  the  purser. 

"Are  you  keeping  Mr.  Kinney  a  prisoner  in 
his  state-room?"  I  demanded.  "If  you  are— 

"He  doesn't  have  to  stay  there,"  protested  the 
purser  sulkily.  "When  he  found  the  stewards 
were  following  him  he  went  to  his  cabin." 

"I  will  see  him  at  once,"  I  said.  "And  if  I 
catch  any  of  your  stewards  following  me,  I'll 
drop  them  overboard." 

No  one  tried  to  stop  me — indeed,  knowing  I 
could  not  escape,  they  seemed  pleased  at  my 
departure,  and  I  went  to  my  cabin. 

Kinney,  seated  on  the  edge  of  the  berth, 
greeted  me  with  a  hollow  groan.  His  expression 
was  one  of  utter  misery.  As  though  begging 
me  not  to  be  angry,  he  threw  out  his  arms 
appealingly. 

"How  the  devil!"  he  began,  "was  I  to  know 
that  a  little  red-headed  shrimp  like  that  was  the 
Earl  of  Ivy?  And  that  that  tall  blond  girl," 

256 


THE  MAKE-BELIEVE  MAN 

he  added  indignantly,  "that  I  thought  was  an 
accomplice,  is  Lady  Moya,  his  sister?" 

"What  happened?"  I  asked. 

Kinney  was  wearing  his  hat.  He  took  it  off 
and  hurled  it  to  the  floor. 

"  It  was  that  damned  hat !"  he  cried.  "  It's  a 
Harvard  ribbon,  all  right,  but  only  men  on  the 
crew  can  wear  it !  How  was  I  to  know  that? 
I  saw  Aldrich  looking  at  it  in  a  puzzled  way,  and 
when  he  said,  'I  see  you  are  on  the  crew,'  I 
guessed  what  it  meant,  and  said  I  was  on  last 
year's  crew.  Unfortunately  he  was  on  last 
year's  crew !  That's  what  made  him  suspect 
me,  and  after  dinner  he  put  me  through  a  third 
degree.  I  must  have  given  the  wrong  answers, 
for  suddenly  he  jumped  up  and  called  me  a 
swindler  and  an  impostor.  I  got  back  by  telling 
him  he  was  a  crook  and  that  I  was  a  detective, 
and  that  I  had  sent  a  wireless  to  have  him 
arrested  at  New  Bedford.  He  challenged  me 
to  prove  I  was  a  detective,  and,  of  course,  I 
couldn't,  and  he  called  up  two  stewards  and 
told  them  to  watch  me  while  he  went  after  the 
purser.  I  didn't  fancy  being  watched,  so  I 
came  here." 

"When  did  you  tell  him  I  was  the  Earl 
of  Ivy?" 

Kinney  ran  his  fingers  through  his  hair  and 
groaned  dismally. 

257 


THE  MAKE-BELIEVE  MAN 

"That  was  before  the  boat  started,"  he  said; 
"it  was  only  a  joke.  He  didn't  seem  to  be 
interested  in  my  conversation,  so  I  thought  I'd 
liven  it  up  a  bit  by  saying  I  was  a  friend  of  Lord 
Ivy's.  And  you  happened  to  pass,  and  I  hap 
pened  to  remember  Mrs.  Shaw  saying  you 
looked  like  a  British  peer,  so  I  said:  'That  is 
my  friend  Lord  Ivy.'  I  said  I  was  your  secre 
tary,  and  he  seemed  greatly  interested,  and— 
Kinney  added  dismally,  "I  talked  too  much. 
I  am  so  sorry,"  he  begged.  "It's  going  to  be 
awful  for  you!"  His  eyes  suddenly  lit  with 
hope.  "Unless,"  he  whispered,  "we  can  es 
cape!" 

The  same  thought  was  in  my  mind,  but  the 
idea  was  absurd,  and  impracticable.  I  knew 
there  was  no  escape.  I  knew  we  were  sentenced 
at  sunrise  to  a  most  humiliating  and  disgraceful 
experience.  The  newspapers  would  regard  any 
thing  that  concerned  Lord  Ivy  as  news.  In  my 
turn  I  also  saw  the  hideous  head-lines.  What 
would  my  father  and  mother  at  Fairport  think; 
what  would  my  old  friends  there  think;  and, 
what  was  of  even  greater  importance,  how  would 
Joyce  &  Carboy  act?  What  chance  was  there 
left  me,  after  I  had  been  arrested  as  an  impos 
tor,  to  become  a  stenographer  in  the  law  courts 
— in  time,  a  member  of  the  bar?  But  I  found 
that  what,  for  the  moment,  distressed  me  most 

258 


THE  MAKE-BELIEVE  MAN 

was  that  the  lovely  lady  would  consider  me  a 
knave  or  a  fool.  The  thought  made  me  exclaim 
with  exasperation.  Had  it  been  possible  to 
abandon  Kinney,  I  would  have  dropped  over 
board  and  made  for  shore.  The  night  was 
warm  and  foggy,  and  the  short  journey  to  land, 
to  one  who  had  been  brought  up  like  a  duck, 
meant  nothing  more  than  a  wetting.  But  I 
did  not  see  how  I  could  desert  Kinney. 

"Can  you  swim?"  I  asked. 

"Of  course  not!"  he  answered  gloomily; 
"and,  besides,"  he  added,  "our  names  are  on 
our  suit-cases.  We  couldn't  take  them  with  us, 
and  they'd  find  out  who  we  are.  If  we  could 
only  steal  a  boat!"  he  exclaimed  eagerly — • 
"one  of  those  on  the  davits,"  he  urged— "we 
could  put  our  suit-cases  in  it  and  then,  after 
every  one  is  asleep,  we  could  lower  it  into 
the  water." 

The  smallest  boat  on  board  was  certified  to 
hold  twenty-five  persons,  and  without  waking 
the  entire  ship's  company  we  could  as  easily 
have  moved  the  chart-room.  This  I  pointed 
out. 

"Don't  make  objections !"  Kinney  cried  petu 
lantly.  He  was  rapidly  recovering  his  spirits. 
The  imminence  of  danger  seemed  to  inspire 
him. 

" Think!"  he  commanded.  "Think  of  some 
259 


THE  MAKE-BELIEVE  MAN 

way  by  which  we  can  get  off  this  boat  before  she 
reaches  New  Bedford.  We  must !  We  must  not 
be  arrested!  It  would  be  too  awful!"  He 
interrupted  himself  with  an  excited  exclamation. 

"I  have  it!"  he  whispered  hoarsely:  "I  will 
ring  in  the  fire-alarm !  The  crew  will  run  to 
quarters.  The  boats  will  be  lowered.  We  will 
cut  one  of  them  adrift.  In  the  confusion " 

What  was  to  happen  in  the  confusion  that  his 
imagination  had  conjured  up,  I  was  not  to  know. 
For  what  actually  happened  was  so  confused 
that  of  nothing  am  I  quite  certain.  First, 
from  the  water  of  the  Sound,  that  was  lapping 
pleasantly  against  the  side,  I  heard  the  voice  of 
a  man  raised  in  terror.  Then  came  a  rush  of 
feet,  oaths,  and  yells;  then  a  shock  that  threw 
us  to  our  knees,  and  a  crunching,  ripping,  and 
tearing  roar  like  that  made  by  the  roof  of  a 
burning  building  when  it  plunges  to  the  cel 
lar. 

And  the  next  instant  a  large  bowsprit  entered 
our  cabin  window.  There  was  left  me  just 
space  enough  to  wrench  the  door  open,  and 
grabbing  Kinney,  who  was  still  on  his  knees,  I 
dragged  him  into  the  alleyway.  He  scrambled 
upright  and  clasped  his  hands  to  his  head. 

"Where's  my  hat?"  he  cried. 

I  could  hear  the  water  pouring  into  the  lower 
deck  and  sweeping  the  freight  and  trunks  before 

260 


THE  MAKE-BELIEVE  MAN 

it.  A  horse  in  a  box  stall  was  squealing  like  a 
human  being,  and  many  human  beings  were 
screaming  and  shrieking  like  animals.  My  first 
intelligent  thought  was  of  the  lovely  lady.  I 
shook  Kinney  by  the  arm.  The  uproar  was  so 
great  that  to  make  him  hear  I  was  forced  to 
shout.  "Where  is  Lord  Ivy's  cabin?"  I  cried. 
:<You  said  it's  next  to  his  sister's.  Take  me 
there!" 

Kinney  nodded,  and  ran  down  the  corridor  and 
into  an  alleyway  on  which  opened  three  cabins. 
The  doors  were  ajar,  and  as  I  looked  into  each  I 
saw  that  the  beds  had  not  been  touched,  and 
that  the  cabins  were  empty.  I  knew  then  that 
she  was  still  on  deck.  I  felt  that  I  must  find  her. 
We  ran  toward  the  companionway. 

"Women  and  children  first!"  Kinney  was 
yelling.  "Women  and  children  first!"  As  we 
raced  down  the  slanting  floor  of  the  saloon  he 
kept  repeating  this  mechanically.  At  that  mo 
ment  the  electric  lights  went  out,  and,  except 
for  the  oil  lamps,  the  ship  was  in  darkness. 
Many  of  the  passengers  had  already  gone  to  bed. 
These  now  burst  from  the  state-rooms  in  strange 
garments,  carrying  life-preservers,  hand-bags, 
their  arms  full  of  clothing.  One  man  in  one 
hand  clutched  a  sponge,  in  the  other  an  umbrella. 
With  this  he  beat  at  those  who  blocked  his 
flight.  He  hit  a  woman  over  the  head,  and  I 

261 


THE  MAKE-BELIEVE  MAN 

hit  him  and  he  went  down.     Finding  himself  on 
his  knees,  he  began  to  pray  volubly. 

When  we  reached  the  upper  deck  we  pushed 
out  of  the  crush  at  the  gangway  and,  to  keep  our 
footing,  for  there  was  a  strong  list  to  port,  clung 
to  the  big  flag-staff  at  the  stern.  At  each  rail 
the  crew  were  swinging  the  boats  over  the  side, 
and  around  each  boat  was  a  crazy,  fighting  mob. 
Above  our  starboard  rail  towered  the  foremast 
of  a  schooner.  She  had  rammed  us  fair  amid 
ships,  and  in  her  bows  was  a  hole  through  which 
you  could  have  rowed  a  boat.  Into  this  the 
water  was  rushing  and  sucking  her  down.  She 
was  already  settling  at  the  stern.  By  the  light 
of  a  swinging  lantern  I  saw  three  of  her  crew 
lift  a  yawl  from  her  deck  and  lower  it  into  the 
water.  Into  it  they  hurled  oars  and  a  sail, 
and  one  of  them  had  already  started  to  slide 
down  the  painter  when  the  schooner  lurched 
drunkenly;  and  in  a  panic  all  three  of  the  men 
ran  forward  and  leaped  to  our  lower  deck. 
The  yawl,  abandoned,  swung  idly  between  the 
Patience  and  the  schooner.  Kinney,  seeing 
what  I  saw,  grabbed  me  by  the  arm. 

"There!"  he  whispered,  pointing;  "there's 
our  chance !"  I  saw  that,  with  safety,  the  yawl 
could  hold  a  third  person,  and  as  to  who  the 
third  passenger  would  be  I  had  already  made  up 
my  mind. 

262 


THE  MAKE-BELIEVE  MAN 

"Wait  here!"  I  said. 

On  the  Patience  there  were  many  immigrants, 
only  that  afternoon  released  from  Ellis  Island. 
They  had  swarmed  into  the  life-boats  even  before 
they  were  swung  clear,  and  when  the  ship's  offi 
cers  drove  them  off,  the  poor  souls,  not  being 
able  to  understand,  believed  they  were  being 
sacrificed  for  the  safety  of  the  other  passengers. 
So  each  was  fighting,  as  he  thought,  for  his  life 
and  for  the  lives  of  his  wife  and  children.  At 
the  edge  of  the  scrimmage  I  dragged  out  two 
women  who  had  been  knocked  off  their  feet  and 
who  were  in  danger  of  being  trampled.  But 
neither  was  the  woman  I  sought.  In  the  half- 
darkness  I  saw  one  of  the  immigrants,  a  girl 
with  a  'kerchief  on  her  head,  struggling  with  her 
life-belt.  A  stoker,  as  he  raced  past,  seized  it 
and  made  for  the  rail.  In  my  turn  I  took  it 
from  him,  and  he  fought  for  it,  shouting:  "It's 
every  man  for  himself  now !" 

"AH  right,"  I  said,  for  I  was  excited  and 
angry,  "look  out  for  yourself  then !"  I  hit  him 
on  the  chin,  and  he  let  go  of  the  life-belt  and 
dropped. 

I  heard  at  my  elbow  a  low,  excited  laugh,  and 
a  voice  said:  "Well  bowled !  You  never  learned 
that  in  an  office."  I  turned  and  saw  the  lovely 
lady.  I  tossed  the  immigrant  girl  her  life-belt, 
and  as  though  I  had  known  Lady  Moya  all  my 

263 


THE  MAKE-BELIEVE  MAN 

life  I  took  her  by  the  hand  and  dragged  her 
after  me  down  the  deck. 

"You  come  with  me!"  I  commanded.  I 
found  that  I  was  trembling  and  that  a  weight  of 
anxiety  of  which  I  had  not  been  conscious  had 
been  lifted.  I  found  I  was  still  holding  her 
hand  and  pressing  it  in  my  own.  "Thank 
God!"  I  said:  "I  thought  I  had  lost  you!" 

"Lost  me!"  repeated  Lady  Moya.  But  she 
made  no  comment.  "I  must  find  my  brother," 
she  said. 

"You  must  come  with  me!"  I  ordered.  "Go 
with  Mr.  Kinney  to  the  lower  deck.  I  will 
bring  that  rowboat  under  the  stern.  You  will 
jump  into  it." 

"I  cannot  leave  my  brother!"  said  Lady 
Moya. 

Upon  the  word,  as  though  shot  from  a  cannon, 
the  human  whirlpool  that  was  sweeping  the  deck 
amidships  cast  out  Stumps  and  hurled  him 
toward  us.  His  sister  gave  a  little  cry  of  relief. 
Stumps  recovered  his  balance  and  shook  himself 
like  a  dog  that  has  been  in  the  water. 

"Thought  Pd  never  get  out  of  it  alive!"  he 
remarked  complacently.  In  the  darkness  I 
could  not  see  his  face,  but  I  was  sure  he  was 
still  vaguely  smiling.  "Worse  than  a  foot-ball 
night!"  he  exclaimed;  "worse  than  Maf eking 
night!" 

264 


THE  MAKE-BELIEVE  MAN 

His  sister  pointed  to  the  yawl. 

"This  gentleman  is  going  to  bring  that  boat 
here  and  take  us  away  in  it,"  she  told  him. 
"We  had  better  go  when  we  can!" 

"Right  ho!"  assented  Stumps  cheerfully. 
"How  about  Phil?  He's  just  behind  me." 

As  he  spoke,  only  a  few  yards  from  us  a  peevish 
voice  pierced  the  tumult. 

"I  tell  you,"  it  cried,  "you  must  find  Lord 
Ivy!  IfLordlvy- 

A  voice  with  a  strong  and  brutal  American  ac 
cent  yelled  in  answer:  "To  hell  with  Lord  Ivy !" 

Lady  Moya  chuckled. 

"Get  to  the  lower  deck!"  I  commanded.  "I 
am  going  for  the  yawl." 

As  I  slipped  my  leg  over  the  rail  I  heard  Lord 
Ivy  say:  "I'll  find  Phil  and  meet  you." 

I  dropped  and  caught  the  rail  of  the  deck 
below,  and,  hanging  from  it,  shoved  with  my 
knees  and  fell  into  the  water.  Two  strokes 
brought  me  to  the  yawl,  and,  scrambling  into 
her  and  casting  her  off,  I  paddled  back  to  the 
steamer.  As  I  lay  under  the  stern  I  heard  from 
the  lower  deck  the  voice  of  Kinney  raised 
importantly. 

"Ladies  first !"  he  cried.  "Her  ladyship  first, 
I  mean,"  he  corrected.  Even  on  leaving  what 
he  believed  to  be  a  sinking  ship,  Kinney  could  not 
forget  his  manners.  But  Mr.  Aldrich  had  evi- 

265 


THE  MAKE-BELIEVE  MAN 

dently  forgotten  his.     I  heard  him  shout  indig 
nantly:  'Til  be  damned  if  I  do!" 

The  voice  of  Lady  Moya  laughed. 

"You'll  be  drowned  if  you  don't!"  she 
answered.  I  saw  a  black  shadow  poised  upon 
the  rail.  "Steady  below  there!"  her  voice 
called,  and  the  next  moment,  as  lightly  as  a 
squirrel,  she  dropped  to  the  thwart  and  stumbled 
into  my  arms. 

The  voice  of  Aldrich  was  again  raised  in 
anger.  "I'd  rather  drown!"  he  cried. 

Lord  Ivy  responded  with  unexpected  spirit. 

"Well,  then,  drown !  The  water  is  warm  and 
it's  a  pleasing  death." 

At  that,  with  a  bump,  he  fell  in  a  heap  at 
my  feet. 

"Easy,  Kinney !"  I  shouted.  "Don't  swamp 
us!" 

"I'll  be  careful!"  he  called,  and  the  next 
instant  hit  my  shoulders  and  I  shook  him  off  on 
top  of  Lord  Ivy. 

"Get  off  my  head!"  shouted  his  lordship. 

Kinney  apologized  to  every  one  profusely. 
Lady  Moya  raised  her  voice. 

"For  the  last  time,  Phil,"  she  called,  "are 
you  coming  or  are  you  not?" 

"Not  with  those  swindlers,  I'm  not!"  he 
shouted.  "  I  think  you  two  are  mad !  I  prefer 
to  drown!" 

266 


THE  MAKE-BELIEVE  MAN 

There  was  an  uncomfortable  silence.  My  po 
sition  was  a  difficult  one,  and,  not  knowing  what 
to  say,  I  said  nothing. 

"If  one  must  drown !"  exclaimed  Lady  Moya 
briskly,  "I  can't  see  it  matters  who  one  drowns 
with." 

In  his  strangely  explosive  manner  Lord  Ivy 
shouted  suddenly:  "Phil,  you're  a  silly  ass." 

"Push  off!"  commanded  Lady  Moya. 

I  think,  from  her  tone,  the  order  was  given 
more  for  the  benefit  of  Aldrich  than  for  myself. 
Certainly  it  was  effective,  for  on  the  instant  there 
was  a  heavy  splash.  Lord  Ivy  sniffed  scornfully 
and  manifested  no  interest. 

"Ah!"  he  exclaimed,  "he  prefers  to  drown!" 

Sputtering  and  gasping,  Aldrich  rose  out  of 
the  water  and,  while  we  balanced  the  boat, 
climbed  over  the  side. 

"Understand!"  he  cried  even  while  he  was 
still  gasping,  "I  am  here  under  protest.  I  am 
here  to  protect  you  and  Stumps.  I  am  under 
obligation  to  no  one.  I'm " 

"Can  you  row?"  I  asked. 

"Why  don't  you  ask  your  pal?"  he  demanded 
savagely;  "he  rowed  on  last  year's  crew." 

"Phil!"  cried  Lady  Moya.  Her  voice  sug 
gested  a  temper  I  had  not  suspected.  "You 
will  row  or  you  can  get  out  and  walk !  Take 
the  oars,"  she  commanded,  "and  be  civil!" 

267 


THE  MAKE-BELIEVE  MAN 

Lady  Moya,  with  the  tiller  in  her  hand,  sat  in 
the  stern;  Stumps,  with  Kinney  huddled  at 
his  knees,  was  stowed  away  forward.  I  took 
the  stroke  and  Aldrich  the  bow  oars. 

"We  will  make  for  the  Connecticut  shore,"  I 
said,  and  pulled  from  under  the  stern  of  the 
Patience. 

In  a  few  minutes  we  had  lost  all  sight  and, 
except  for  her  whistle,  all  sound  of  her;  and  we 
ourselves  were  lost  in  the  fog.  There  was  an 
other  eloquent  and  embarrassing  silence.  Un 
less,  in  the  panic,  they  trampled  upon  each 
other,  I  had  no  real  fear  for  the  safety  of  those 
on  board  the  steamer.  Before  we  had  aban 
doned  her  I  had  heard  the  wireless  frantically 
sputtering  the  "stand-by"  call,  and  I  was 
certain  that  already  the  big  boats  of  the  Fall 
River,  Providence,  and  Joy  lines,  and  launches 
from  every  wireless  station  between  Bridgeport 
and  Newport,  were  making  toward  her.  But 
the  margin  of  safety,  which  to  my  thinking  was 
broad  enough  for  all  the  other  passengers,  for 
the  lovely  lady  was  in  no  way  sufficient.  That 
mob-swept  deck  was  no  place  for  her.  I  was 
happy  that,  on  her  account,  I  had  not  waited 
for  a  possible  rescue.  In  the  yawl  she  was  safe. 
The  water  was  smooth,  and  the  Connecticut 
shore  was,  I  judged,  not  more  than  three  miles 
distant.  In  an  hour,  unless  the  fog  confused 

268 


THE  MAKE-BELIEVE  MAN 

us,  I  felt  sure  the  lovely  lady  would  again  walk 
safely  upon  dry  land.  Selfishly,  on  Kinney's 
account  and  my  own,  I  was  delighted  to  find 
myself  free  of  the  steamer,  and  from  any  chance 
of  her  landing  us  where  police  waited  with  open 
arms.  The  avenging  angel  in  the  person  of 
Aldrich  was  still  near  us,  so  near  that  I  could 
hear  the  water  dripping  from  his  clothes,  but 
his  power  to  harm  was  gone.  I  was  congratu 
lating  myself  on  this  when  suddenly  he  unde 
ceived  me.  Apparently  he  had  been  considering 
his  position  toward  Kinney  and  myself,  and, 
having  arrived  at  a  conclusion,  was  anxious  to 
announce  it. 

"I  wish  to  repeat,"  he  exclaimed  suddenly, 
"that  I'm  under  obligations  to  nobody.  Just 
because  my  friends,"  he  went  on  defiantly, 
"choose  to  trust  themselves  with  persons  who 
ought  to  be  in  jail,  I  can't  desert  them.  It's 
all  the  more  reason  why  I  shouldn't  desert  them. 
That's  why  I'm  here!  And  I  want  it  under 
stood  as  soon  as  I  get  on  shore  I'm  going  to 
a  police  station  and  have  those  persons  ar 
rested." 

Rising  out  of  the  fog  that  had  rendered  each 
of  us  invisible  to  the  other,  his  words  sounded 
fantastic  and  unreal.  In  the  dripping  isilence, 
broken  only  by  hoarse  warnings  that  came  from 

269 


THE  MAKE-BELIEVE  MAN 

no  direction,  and  within  the  mind  of  each  the 
conviction  that  we  were  lost,  police  stations  did 
not  immediately  concern  us.  So  no  one  spoke, 
and  in  the  fog  the  words  died  away  and  were 
drowned.  But  I  was  glad  he  had  spoken.  At 
least  I  was  forewarned.  I  now  knew  that  I  had 
not  escaped,  that  Kinney  and  I  were  still  in 
danger.  I  determined  that  so  far  as  it  lay 
with  me,  our  yawl  would  .be  beached  at  that 
point  of  the  coast  of  Connecticut  farthest  re 
moved,  not  only  from  police  stations,  but  from 
all  human  habitation. 

As  soon  as  we  were  out  of  hearing  of  the  Pa 
tience  and  her  whistle,  we  completely  lost  our 
bearings.  It  may  be  that  Lady  Moya  was  not 
a  skilled  coxswain,  or  it  may  be  that  Aldrich 
understands  a  racing  scull  better  than  a  yawl, 
and  pulled  too  heavily  on  his  right,  but  what 
ever  the  cause  we  soon  were  hopelessly  lost. 
In  this  predicament  we  were  not  alone.  The 
night  was  filled  with  fog-horns,  whistles,  bells, 
and  the  throb  of  engines,  but  we  never  were 
near  enough  to  hail  the  vessels  iVom  which  the 
sounds  came,  and  when  we  rowed  toward  them 
they  invariably  sank  into  silence.  After  two 
hours  Stumps  and  Kinney  insisted  on  taking  a 
turn  at  the  oars,  and  Lady  Moya  moved  to  the 
bow.  We  gave  her  our  coats,  and,  making 
cushions  of  these,  she  announced  that  she  was 

270 


THE  MAKE-BELIEVE  MAN 

going  to  sleep.  Whether  she  slept  or  not,  I  do 
not  know,  but  she  remained  silent.  For  three 
more  dreary  hours  we  took  turns  at  the  oars 
or  dozed  at  the  bottom  of  the  boat  while  we 
continued  aimlessly  to  drift  upon  the  face  of  the 
waters.  It  was  now  five  o'clock,  and  the  fog 
had  so  far  lightened  that  we  could  see  each  other 
and  a  stretch  of  open  water.  At  intervals  the 
fog-horns  of  vessels  passing  us,  but  hidden  from 
us,  tormented  Aldrich  to  a  state  of  extreme 
exasperation.  He  hailed  them  with  frantic 
shrieks  and  shouts,  and  Stumps  and  the  Lady 
Moya  shouted  with  him.  I  fear  Kinney  and 
myself  did  not  contribute  any  great  volume  of 
sound  to  the  general  chorus.  To  be  "rescued" 
was  the  last  thing  we  desired.  The  yacht  or 
tug  that  would  receive  us  on  board  would  also 
put  us  on  shore,  where  the  vindictive  Aldrich 
would  have  us  at  his  mercy.  We  preferred  the 
freedom  of  our  yawl  and  the  shelter  of  the  fog. 
Our  silence  was  not  lost  upon  Aldrich.  For 
some  time  he  had  been  crouching  in  the  bow, 
whispering  indignantly  to  Lady  Moya;  now  he 
exclaimed  aloud: 

"What  did  I  tell  you?"  he  cried  contemptu 
ously;  "they  got  away  in  this  boat  because  they 
were  afraid  of  me,  not  because  they  were  afraid 
of  being  drowned.  If  they've  nothing  <to  be 
afraid  of,  why  are  they  so  anxious  to  keep  us 

271 


THE  MAKE-BELIEVE  MAN 

drifting   arcund   all   night   in   this    fog?     Why 
don't  they  help  us  stop  one  of  those  tugs?" 

Lord  Ivy  exploded  suddenly. 

"Rot!"  he  exclaimed.  "If  they're  afraid  of 
you,  why  did  they  ask  you  to  go  with  them?" 

"They  didn't!"  cried  Aldrich,  truthfully  and 
triumphantly.  "They  kidnapped  you  and  Moya 
because  they  thought  they  could  square  them 
selves  with  you.  But  they  didn't  want  me/" 
The  issue  had  been  fairly  stated,  and  no  longer 
with  self-respect  could  I  remain  silent. 

"We  don't  want  you  now!"  I  said.  "Can't 
you  understand,"  I  went  on  with  as  much  self- 
restraint  as  I  could  muster,  "we  are  willing  and 
anxious  to  explain  ourselves  to  Lord  Ivy,  or 
even  to  you,  but  we  don't  want  to  explain  to 
the  police?  My  friend  thought  you  and  Lord 
Ivy  were  crooks,  escaping.  You  think  we  are 
crooks,  escaping.  You  both— 

Aldrich  snorted  contemptuously. 

"That's  a  likely  story!"  he  cried.  "No 
wonder  you  don't  want  to  tell  that  to  the  police !" 

From  the  bow  came  an  exclamation,  and  Lady 
Moya  rose  to  her  feet. 

"  Phil  1 "  she  said,  "you  bore  me ! "  She  picked 
her  way  across  the  thwart  to  where  Kinney  sat 
at  the  stroke  oar. 

"My  brother  and  I  often  row  together,"  she 
said;  "I  will  take  your  place." 

272 


THE  MAKE-BELIEVE  MAN 

When  she  had  seated  herself  we  were  so  near 
that  her  eyes  looked  directly  into  mine.  Draw 
ing  in  the  oars,  she  leaned  upon  them  and  smiled. 

"Now,  then,"  she  commanded,  "tell  us  all 
about  it." 

Before  I  could  speak  there  came  from  behind 
her  a  sudden  radiance,  and  as  though  a  curtain 
had  been  snatched  aside,  the  fog  flew  apart,  and 
the  sun,  dripping,  crimson,  and  gorgeous,  sprang 
from  the  waters.  From  the  others  there  was  a 
cry  of  wonder  and  delight,  and  from  Lord  Ivy 
a  shriek  of  incredulous  laughter. 

Lady  Moya  clapped  her  hands  joyfully  and 
pointed  past  me.  I  turned  and  looked.  Di 
rectly  behind  me,  not  fifty  feet  from  us,  was  a 
shelving  beach  and  a  stone  wharf,  and  above  it 
a  vine-covered  cottage,  from  the  chimney  of 
which  smoke  curled  cheerily.  Had  the  yawl, 
while  Lady  Moya  was  taking  the  oars,  not  swung 
in  a  circle,  and  had  the  sun  not  risen,  in  three 
minutes  more  we  would  have  bumped  ourselves 
into  the  State  of  Connecticut.  The  cottage  stood 
on  one  horn  of  a  tiny  harbor.  Beyond  it, 
weather-beaten,  shingled  houses,  sail-lofts,  and 
wharfs  stretched  cosily  in  a  half-circle.  Back 
of  them  rose  splendid  elms  and  the  delicate  spire 
of  a  church,  and  from  the  unruffled  surface  of 
the  harbor  the  masts  of  many  fishing-boats. 
Across  the  water,  on  a  grass-grown  point,  a 

273 


THE  MAKE-BELIEVE  MAN 

whitewashed  light-house  blushed  in  the  crimson 
glory  of  the  sun.  Except  for  an  oysterman  in 
his  boat  at  the  end  of  the  wharf,  and  the  smoke 
from  the  chimney  of  his  cottage,  the  little  village 
slept,  the  harbor  slept.  It  was  a  picture  of 
perfect  content,  confidence,  and  peace.  "Oh!" 
cried  the  Lady  Moya,  "  how  pretty,  how  pretty  ! " 

Lord  Ivy  swung  the  bow  about  and  raced 
toward  the  wharf.  The  others  stood  up  and 
cheered  hysterically. 

At  the  sound  and  at  the  sight  of  us  emerging 
so  mysteriously  from  the  fog,  the  man  in  the 
fishing-boat  raised  himself  to  his  full  height  and 
stared  as  incredulously  as  though  he  beheld  a 
mermaid.  He  was  an  old  man,  but  straight  and 
tall,  and  the  oysterman's  boots  stretching  to  his 
hips  made  him  appear  even  taller  than  he  was. 
He  had  a  bristling  white  beard  and  his  face  was 
tanned  to  a  fierce  copper  color,  but  his  eyes  were 
blue  and  young  and  gentle.  They  lit  suddenly 
with  excitement  and  sympathy. 

"Are  you  from  the  Patience?"  he  shouted. 
In  chorus  we  answered  that  we  were,  and  Ivy 
pulled  the  yawl  alongside  the  fisherman's 
boat. 

But  already  the  old  man  had  turned  and, 
making  a  megaphone  of  his  hands,  was  shouting 
to  the  cottage. 

"Mother!"  he  cried,  "mother,  here  are  folks 
274 


THE  MAKE-BELIEVE  MAN 

from  the  wreck.  Get  coffee  and  blankets  and— 
and  bacon — and  eggs!" 

"May  the  Lord  bless  him!"  exclaimed  the 
Lady  Moya  devoutly. 

But  Aldrich,  excited  and  eager,  pulled  out  a 
roll  of  bills  and  shook  them  at  the  man. 

"Do  you  want  to  earn  ten  dollars?"  he  de 
manded;  "then  chase  yourself  to  the  village 
and  bring  the  constable." 

Lady  Moya  exclaimed  bitterly,  Lord  Ivy 
swore,  Kinney  in  despair  uttered  a  dismal  howl 
and  dropped  his  head  in  his  hands. 

"It's  no  use,  Mr.  Aldrich,"  I  said.  Seated  in 
the  stern,  the  others  had  hidden  me  from  the 
fisherman.  Now  I  stood  up  and  he  saw  me. 
I  laid  one  hand  on  his,  and  pointed  to  the  tin 
badge  on  his  suspender. 

"He  is  the  village  constable  himself,"  I  ex 
plained.  I  turned  to  the  lovely  lady.  "Lady 
Moya,"  I  said,  "I  want  to  introduce  you  to  my 
father !"  I  pointed  to  the  vine-covered  cottage. 
"  That's  my  home,"  I  said.  I  pointed  to  the 
sleeping  town.  "That,"  I  told  her,  "is  the 
village  of  Fairport.  Most  of  it  belongs  to 
father.  You  are  all  very  welcome." 


275 


PEACE  MANCEUVRES 

THE  scout  stood  where  three  roads  cut  three 
green  tunnels  in  the  pine  woods,  and  met  at 
his  feet.  Above  his  head  an  aged  sign-post 
pointed  impartially  to  East  Carver,  South 
Carver,  and  Carver  Centre,  and  left  the  choice 
to  him. 

The  scout '  scowled  and  bit  nervously  at  his 
gauntlet.  The  choice  was  difficult,  and  there 
was  no  one  with  whom  he  could  take  counsel. 
The  three  sun-shot  roads  lay  empty,  and  the 
other  scouts,  who,  with  him,  had  left  the  main 
column  at  sunrise,  he  had  ordered  back.  They 
were  to  report  that  on  the  right  flank,  so  far,  at 
least,  as  Middleboro,  there  was  no  sign  of  the 
enemy.  What  lay  beyond,  it  now  was  his  duty 
to  discover.  The  three  empty  roads  spread 
before  him  like  a  picture-puzzle,  smiling  at  Irs 
predicament.  Whichever  one  he  followed  left 
two  unguarded.  Should  he  creep  upon  for 
choice  Carver  Centre,  the  enemy,  masked  by  a 
mile  of  fir-trees,  might  advance  from  Carver 
or  South  Carver,  and  obviously  he  could  not 
follow  three  roads  at  the  same  time.  He  con 
sidered  the  better  strategy  would  be  to  wait 

" 


PEACE  MANOEUVRES 

where  he  was,  where  the  three  roads  met,  and 
allow  the  enemy  himself  to  disclose  his  position. 
To  the  scout  this  course  was  most  distasteful. 
He  assured  himself  that  this  was  so  because, 
while  it  were  the  safer  course,  it  wasted  time  and 
lacked  initiative.  But  in  his  heart  he  knew  that 
was  not  the  reason,  and  to  his  heart  his  head 
answered  that  when  one's  country  is  at  war, 
when  fields  and  firesides  are  trampled  by  the 
iron  heels  of  the  invader,  a  scout  should  act 
not  according  to  the  dictates  of  his  heart,  but 
in  the  service  of  his  native  land.  In  the  case 
of  this  particular  patriot,  the  man  and  scout 
were  at  odds.  As  one  of  the  Bicycle  Squad  of 
the  Boston  Corps  of  Cadets,  the  scout  knew 
what,  at  this  momentous  crisis  in  her  history, 
the  commonwealth  of  Massachusetts  demanded 
of  him.  It  was  that  he  sit  tight  and  wait  for 
the  hated  foreigners  from  New  York  City,  New 
Jersey,  and  Connecticut  to  show  themselves. 
But  the  man  knew,  and  had  known  for  several 
years,  that  on  the  road  to  Carver  was  the  summer 
home  of  one  Beatrice  Farrar.  As  Private  La- 
throp  it  was  no  part  of  his  duty  to  know  that.  As 
a  man  and  a  lover,  and  a  rejected  lover  at  that, 
he  could  not  think  of  anything  else.  Struggling 
between  love  and  duty  the  scout  basely  decided 
to  leave  the  momentous  question  to  chance. 
In  the  front  tire  of  his  bicycle  was  a  puncture, 

277 


PEACE  MANOEUVRES 

temporarily  effaced  by  a  plug.  Laying  the 
bicycle  on  the  ground,  Lathrop  spun  the  front 
wheel  swiftly. 

"If,"  he  decided,  "the  wheel  stops  with  the 
puncture  pointing  at  .Carver  Centre,  I'll  advance 
upon  Carver  Centre.  Should  it  point  to  either 
of  the  two  other  villages,  I'll  stop  here. 

"It's  a  two-to-one  shot  against  me,  anyway," 
he  growled. 

Kneeling  in  the  road  he  spun  the  wheel,  and 
as  intently  as  at  Monte  Carlo  and  Palm  Beach 
he  had  waited  for  other  wheels  to  determine  his 
fortune,  he  watched  it  come  to  rest.  It  stopped 
with  the  plug  pointing  back  to  Middleboro. 

The  scout  told  himself  he  was  entitled  to 
another  trial.  Again  he  spun  the  wheel.  Again 
the  spokes  flashed  in  the  sun.  Again  the  punc 
ture  rested  on  the  road  to  Middleboro. 

"  If  it  does  that  once  more,"  thought  the  scout, 
"it's  a  warning  that  there  is  trouble  ahead  for 
me  at  Carver,  and  all  the  little  Carvers." 

For  the  third  time  the  wheel  flashed,  but  as 
he  waited  for  the  impetus  to  die,  the  sound  of 
galloping  hoofs  broke  sharply  on  the  silence. 
The  scout  threw  himself  and  his  bicycle  over  the 
nearest  stone  wall,  and,  unlimbering  his  rifle, 
pointed  it  down  the  road. 

He  saw  approaching  a  small  boy,  in  a  white 
apron,  seated  in  a  white  wagon,  on  which  was 

278 


PEACE  MANOEUVRES 

painted,  "Pies  and  Pastry.  East  Wareham." 
The  boy  dragged  his  horse  to  an  abrupt 
halt. 

"Don't  point  that  at  me!"  shouted  the  boy. 

"Where  do  you  come  from?"  demanded  the 
scout. 

"Wareham,"  said  the  baker. 

"Are  you  carrying  any  one  concealed  in  that 
wagon?" 

As  though  to  make  sure  the  baker's  boy 
glanced  apprehensively  into  the  depths  of  his 
cart,  and  then  answered  that  in  the  wagon  he 
carried  nothing  but  fresh-baked  bread.  To 
the  trained  nostrils  of  the  scout  this  already  was 
evident.  Before  sunrise  he  had  breakfasted  on 
hard  tack  and  muddy  coffee,  and  the  odor  of 
crullers  and  mince  pie,  still  warm,  assailed  him 
cruelly.  He  assumed  a  fierce  and  terrible 
aspect. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  he  challenged. 

"To  Carver  Centre,"  said  the  boy. 

To  chance  Lathrop  had  left  the  decision.  He 
believed  the  fates  had  answered. 

Dragging  his  bicycle  over  the  stone  wall,  he 
fell  into  the  road. 

"Go  on,"  he  commanded.  "I'll  use  your 
cart  for  a  screen.  I'll  creep  behind  the  enemy 
before  he  sees  me." 

The  baker's  boy  frowned  unhappily. 
279 


PEACE  MANCEUVRES 

"But  supposing,"  he  argued,  "they  see  you 
first,  will  they  shoot?" 

The  scout  waved  his  hand  carelessly. 

"Of  course,"  he  cried. 

"Then,"  said  the  baker,  "my  horse  will  run 
away!" 

"What  of  it?"  demanded  the  scout.  "Are 
Middleboro,  South  Middleboro,  Rock,  Brockton, 
and  Boston  to  fall?  Are  they  to  be  captured 
because  you're  afraid  of  your  own  horse?  They 
won't  shoot  real  bullets.  This  is  not  a  real  war. 
Don't  you  know  that?" 

The  baker's  boy  flushed  with  indignation. 

"Sure,  I  know  that,"  he  protested;  "but  my 
horse — he  don't  know  that!" 

Lathrop  slung  his  rifle  over  his  shoulder  and 
his  leg  over  his  bicycle. 

"  If  the  Reds  catch  you,"  he  warned,  in  part 
ing,  "they'll  take  everything  you've  got." 

"The  Blues  have  took  most  of  it  already," 
wailed  the  boy.  "And  just  as  they  were  paying 
me  the  battle  begun,  and  this  horse  run  away, 
and  I  couldn't  get  him  to  come  back  for  my 
money." 

"War,"  exclaimed  Lathrop  morosely,  "is 
always  cruel  to  the  innocent."  He  sped  toward 
Carver  Centre.  In  his  motor  car,  he  had 
travelled  the  road  many  times,  and  as  always  his 
goal  had  been  the  home  of  Miss  Beatrice  Farrar, 

280 


PEACE  MANOEUVRES 

he  had  covered  it  at  a  speed  unrecognized  by 
law.  But  now  he  advanced  with  stealth  and 
caution.  In  every  clump  of  bushes  he  saw  an 
ambush.  Behind  each  rock  he  beheld  the 
enemy. 

In  a  clearing  was  a  group  of  Portuguese  cran 
berry  pickers,  dressed  as  though  for  a  holiday. 
When  they  saw  the  man  in  uniform,  one  of  the 
women  hailed  him  anxiously. 

"Is  the  parade  coming?"  she  called. 

"Have  you  seen  any  of  the  Reds?"  Lathrop 
returned. 

"No,"  complained  the  woman.  "And  we 
been  waiting  all  morning.  When  will  the  parade 
come?" 

"It's  not  a  parade,"  said  Lathrop,  severely. 
"It's  a  war!" 

The  summer  home  of  Miss  Farrar  stood  close 
to  the  road.  It  had  been  so  placed  by  the  farmer 
who  built  it,  in  order  that  the  women  folk  might 
sit  at  the  window  and  watch  the  passing  of  the 
stage-coach  and  the  peddler.  Great  elms  hung 
over  it,  and  a  white  fence  separated  the  road 
from  the  narrow  lawn.  At  a  distance  of  a  hun 
dred  yards  a  turn  brought  the  house  into  view, 
and  at  this  turn,  as  had  been  his  manoeuvre  at 
every  other  possible  ambush,  Lathrop  dis 
mounted  and  advanced  on  foot.  Up  >to  this 
moment  the  road  had  been  empty,  but  now, 

281 


PEACE  MANOEUVRES 

in  front  of  the  Farrar  cottage,  it  was  blocked 
by  a  touring-car  and  a  station  wagon.  In  the 
occupants  of  the  car  he  recognized  all  the 
members  of  the  Farrar  family,  except  Miss 
Farrar.  In  the  station  wagon  were  all  of  the 
Farrar  servants.  Miss  Farrar  herself  was  lean 
ing  upon  the  gate  and  waving  them  a  farewell. 
The  touring-car  moved  off  down  the  road;  the 
station  wagon  followed;  Miss  Farrar  was  alone. 
Lathrop  scorched  toward  her,  and  when  he  was 
opposite  the  gate,  dug  his  toes  in  the  dust  and 
halted.  When  he  lifted  his  broad-brimmed 
campaign  hat,  Miss  Farrar  exclaimed  both 
with  surprise  and  displeasure.  Drawing  back 
from  the  gate  she  held  herself  erect.  Her  atti 
tude  was  that  of  one  prepared  for  instant 
retreat.  When  she  spoke  it  was  in  tones  of 
extreme  disapproval. 

''You  promised,"  said  the  girl,  "you  would 
not  come  to  see  me." 

Lathrop,  straddling  his  bicycle,  peered  anx 
iously  down  the  road. 

"This  is  not  a  social  call,"  he  said.  "I'm  on 
duty.  Have  you  seen  the  Reds?" 

His  tone  was  brisk  and  alert,  his  manner  pre 
occupied.  The  ungraciousness  of  his  reception 
did  not  seem  in  the  least  to  disconcert  him. 

But  Miss  Farrar  was  not  deceived.  She  knew 
him,  not  only  as  a  persistent  and  irrepressible 

282 


PEACE  MANCEUVRES 

lover,  but  as  one  full  of  guile,  adroit  in  tricks, 
fertile  in  expedients.  He  was  one  who  could 
not  take  "No"  for  an  answer — at  least  not 
from  her.  When  she  repulsed  him  she  seemed 
to  grow  in  his  eyes  only  the  more  attractive. 

"It  is  not  the  lover  who  comes  to  woo,"  he 
was  constantly  explaining,  "but  the  lover's  way 
of  wooing." 

Miss  Farrar  had  assured  him  she  did  not  like 
his  way.  She  objected  to  being  regarded  and 
treated  as  a  castle  that  could  be  taken  only  by 
assault.  Whether  she  wished  time  to  consider, 
or  whether  he  and  his  proposal  were  really  ob 
noxious  to  her,  he  could  not  find  out.  His  policy 
of  campaign  was  that  she,  also,  should  not  have 
time  to  find  out.  Again  and  again  she  had 
agreed  to  see  him  only  on  the  condition  that  he 
would  not  make  love  to  her.  He  had  promised 
again  and  again,  and  had  failed  to  keep  that 
promise.  Only  a  week  before  he  had  been 
banished  from  her  presence,  to  remain  an  exile 
until  she  gave  him  permission  to  see  her  at  her 
home  in  New  York.  It  was  not  her  purpose  to 
return  there  for  two  weeks,  and  yet  here  he 
was,  a  beggar  at  her  gate.  It  might  be  that  he 
was  there,  as  he  said,  "on  duty,"  but  her 
knowledge  of  him  and  of  the  doctrine  of  chances 
caused  her  to  doubt  it. 

"Mr.  Lathrop!"  she  began,  severely'. 

283 


PEACE  MANOEUVRES 

As  though  to  see  to  whom  she  had  spoken  La- 
throp  glanced  anxiously  over  his  shoulder. 
Apparently  pained  and  surprised  to  find  that  it 
was  to  him  she  had  addressed  herself,  he  re 
garded  her  with  deep  reproach.  His  eyes  were 
very  beautiful.  It  was  a  fact  which  had  often 
caused  Miss  Farrar  extreme  annoyance. 

He  shook  his  head  sadly. 

"'Mr.  Lathrop?"  he  protested.  "You 
know  that  to  you  I  am  always  'Charles — 
Charles  the  Bold,'  because  I  am  bold  to  love 
you;  but  never  'Mr.  Lathrop,'  unless,"  he  went 
on  briskly,  "you  are  referring  to  a  future 
state,  when,  as  Mrs.  Lathrop,  you  will  make 
me " 

Miss  Farrar  had  turned  her  back  on  him,  and 
was  walking  rapidly  up  the  path. 

"Beatrice,"  he  called.  "I  am  coming  after 
you!" 

Miss  Farrar  instantly  returned  and  placed 
both  hands  firmly  upon  the  gate. 

"  I  cannot  understand  you  ! "  she  said.  "  Don't 
you  see  that  when  you  act  as  you  do  now,  I 
can't  even  respect  you?  How  do  you  think  I 
could  ever  care,  when  you  offend  me  so?  You 
jest  at  what  you  pretend  is  the  most  serious 
thing  in  your  life.  You  play  with  it — laugh 
at  it!" 

The  young  man  interrupted  her  sharply. 
284 


PEACE  MANOEUVRES 

"It's  like  this,"  he  said.  "When  I  am  with 
you  I  am  so  happy  I  can't  be  serious.  When  I 
am  not  with  you,  it  is  50  serious  that  I  am  utterly 
and  completely  wretched.  You  say  my  love 
offends  you,  bores  you !  I  am  sorry,  but  what, 
in  heaven's  name,  do  you  think  your  not  loving 
me  is  doing  to  me  ?  I  am  a  wreck !  I  am  a 
skeleton!  Look  at  me!" 

He  let  his  bicycle  fall,  and  stood  with  his 
hands  open  at  his  sides,  as  though  inviting  her 
to  gaze  upon  the  ruin  she  had  caused. 

Four  days  of  sun  and  rain,  astride  of  a  bicycle, 
without  food  or  sleep,  had  drawn  his  face  into 
fine,  hard  lines,  had  bronzed  it  with  a  healthy 
tan.  His  uniform,  made  by  the  same  tailor  that 
fitted  him  with  polo  breeches,  clung  to  him  like 
a  jersey.  The  spectacle  he  presented  was  that 
of  an  extremely  picturesque,  handsome,  manly 
youth,  and  of  that  fact  no  one  was  better  aware 
than  himself. 

"Look  at  me,"  he  begged,  sadly. 

Miss  Farrar  was  entirely  unimpressed. 

"I  am!"  she  returned,  coldly.  "I  never  saw 
you  looking  so  well — and  you  know  it."  She 
gave  a  gasp  of  comprehension.  "You  came 
here  because  you  knew  your  uniform  was 
becoming !" 

Lathrop  regarded  himself  complacently. 

"Yes,  isn't  it?"  he  assented.     "I  brought  on 

285 


PEACE   MANOEUVRES 

this  war  in  order  to  wear  it.  If  you  don't  mind," 
he  added,  "I  think  I'll  accept  your  invitation 
and  come  inside.  I've  had  nothing  to  eat  in 
four  days." 

Miss   Farrar's  eyes  flashed  indignantly. 

"You're  not  coming  inside,"  she  declared; 
"but  if  you'll  only  promise  to  go  away  at  once, 
I'll  bring  you  everything  in  the  house." 

"In  that  house,"  exclaimed  Lathrop,  dra 
matically,  "there's  only  one  thing  that  I  desire, 
and  I  want  that  so  badly  that  'life  holds  no 
charm  without  you." 

Miss  Farrar  regarded  him  steadily. 

"Do  you  intend  to  drive  me  away  from  my 
own  door,  or  will  you  go?" 

Lathrop  picked  his  wheel  out  of  the  dust. 

"Good-by,"  he  said.  "I'll  come  back  when 
you  have  made  up  your  mind." 

In  vexation  Miss  Farrar  stamped  her  foot 
upon  the  path. 

"I  have  made  up  my  mind !"  she  protested. 

"Then,"  returned  Lathrop,  "I'll  come  back 
when  you  have  changed  it." 

He  made  a  movement  as  though  to  ride  away, 
but  much  to  Miss  Farrar's  dismay,  hastily  dis 
mounted.  "On  second  thoughts,"  he  said,  "it 
isn't  right  for  me  to  leave  you.  The  woods  are 
full  of  tramps  and  hangers-on  of  the  army. 
You're  not  safe.  I  can  watch  this  road  from 

286 


PEACE   MANOEUVRES 

here  as  well  as  from  anywhere  else,  and  at  the 
same  time  I  can  guard  you." 

To  the  consternation  of  Miss  Farrar  he  placed 
his  bicycle  against  the  fence,  and,  as  though  pre 
paring  for  a  visit,  leaned  his  elbows  upon  it. 

"I  do  not  wish  to  be  rude,"  said  Miss  Farrar, 
"but  you  are  annoying  me.  I  have  spent  fifteen 
summers  in  Massachusetts,  and  I  have  never 
seen  a  tramp.  I  need  no  one  to  guard  me." 

"If  not  you,"  said  Lathrop  easily,  "then "the 
family  silver.  And  think  of  your  jewels,  and 
your  mother's  jewels.  Think  of  yourself  in  a 
house  filled  with  jewels,  and  entirely  surrounded 
by  hostile  armies !  My  duty  is  to  remain  writh 

you." 

Miss  Farrar  was  so  long  in  answering,  that 
Lathrop  lifted  his  head  and  turned  to  look.  He 
found  her  frowning  and  gazing  intently  into  the 
shadow  of  the  woods,  across  the  road.  When  she 
felt  his  eyes  upon  her  she  turned  her  own  guiltily 
upon  him.  Her  cheeks  were  flushed  and  her  face 
glowed  with  some  unusual  excitement. 

"I  wish,"  she  exclaimed  breathlessly — "I 
wish,"  she  repeated,  "the  Reds  would  take  you 
prisoner!" 

"Take  me  where?"  asked  Lathrop. 

"Take  you  anywhere!"  cried  Miss  Farrar. 
"You  should  be  ashamed  to  talk  to  me  when  you 
should  be  looking  for  the  enemy!" 

287 


PEACE  MANCEUVRES 

"I  am  waiting  for  the  enemy,"  explained  La- 
throp.  "  It's  the  same  thing." 

Miss  Farrar  smiled  vindictively.  Her  eyes 
shone. 

"You  need  not  wait  long,"  she  said. 

There  was  a  crash  of  a  falling  stone  wall,  and 
of  parting  bushes,  but  not  in  time  to  give  La- 
throp  warning.  As  though  from  the  branches 
of  the  trees  opposite  two  soldiers  fell  into  the 
road;  around  his  hat  each  wore  the  red  band  of 
the  invader;  each  pointed  his  rifle  at  Lathrop. 

"Hands  up!"  shouted  one.  " You're  my 
prisoner!"  cried  the  other. 

Mechanically  Lathrop  raised  his  hands,  but 
his  eyes  turned  to  Miss  Farrar. 

"Did  you  know?"  he  asked. 

"I  have  been  watching  them,"  she  said, 
"creeping  up  on  you  for  the  last  ten  minutes." 

Lathrop  turned  to  the  two  soldiers,  and  made 
an  effort  to  smile. 

"That  was  very  clever,"  he  said,  "but  I  have 
twenty  men  up  the  road,  and  behind  them  a  regi 
ment.  You  had  better  get  away  while  you  can." 

The  two  Reds  laughed  derisively.  One,  who 
wore  the  stripes  of  a  sergeant,  answered:  "That 
won't  do !  We  been  a  mile  up  the  road,  and  you 
and  us  are  the  only  soldiers  on  it.  Gimme  the 
gun!" 

Lathrop  knew  he  had  no  right  to  refuse.  He 
288 


PEACE  MANOEUVRES 

had  been  fairly  surprised,  but  he  hesitated. 
When  Miss  Farrar  was  not  in  his  mind  his 
amateur  soldiering  was  to  him  a  most  serious 
proposition.  The  war  game  was  a  serious 
proposition,  and  that,  through  his  failure  for 
ten  minutes  to  regard  it  seriously,  he  had  been 
made  a  prisoner,  mortified  him  keenly.  That 
his  humiliation  had  taken  place  in  the  presence 
of  Beatrice  Farrar  did  not  lessen  his  discomfort, 
nor  did  the  explanation  he  must  later  make  to 
his  captain  afford  him  any  satisfaction.  Already 
he  saw  himself  playing  the  star  part  in  a  court- 
martial.  He  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  sur 
rendered  his  gun. 

As  he  did  so  he  gloomily  scrutinized  the 
insignia  of  his  captors. 

"Who  took  me?"  he  asked. 

"We  took  you,"  exclaimed  the  sergeant. 

"What  regiment?"  demanded  Lathrop, 
sharply.  "I  have  to  report  who  took  me;  and 
you  probably  don't  know  it,  but  your  collar 
ornaments  are  upside  down."  With  genuine 
exasperation  he  turned  to  Miss  Farrar. 

"Lord!"  he  exclaimed,  "isn't  it  bad  enough 
to  be  taken  prisoner,  without  being  taken  by 
raw  recruits  that  can't  put  on  their  uniforms?" 

The  Reds  flushed,  and  the  younger,  a 
sandy-haired,  rat- faced  youth,  retorted  angrily: 
"Mebbe  we  ain't  strong  on  uniforms,  beau,"  he 

289 


PEACE  MANCEUVRES 

snarled,  "but  you've  got  nothing  on  us  yet, 
that  I  can  see.  You  look  pretty  with  your 
hands  in  the  air,  don't  you?" 

"Shut  up,"  commanded  the  other  Red.  He 
was  the  older  man,  heavily  built,  with  a  strong, 
hard  mouth  and  chin,  on  which  latter  sprouted  a 
three  days'  iron-gray  beard.  "Don't  you  see 
he's  an  officer?  Officers  don't  like  being  took 
by  two-spot  privates." 

Lathrop  gave  a  sudden  start.     "Why,"   he 
laughed,    incredulously,    "don't   you    know- 
He  stopped,  and  his  eyes  glanced  quickly  up 
and  down  the  road. 

"Don't  we  know  what?"  demanded  the  older 
Red,  suspiciously. 

"I  forgot,"  said  Lathrop.  "I — I  must  not 
give  information  to  the  enemy — " 

For  an  instant  there  was  a  pause,  while  the  two 
Reds  stood  irresolute.  Then  the  older  nodded 
the  other  to  the  side  of  the  road,  and  in  whispers 
they  consulted  eagerly. 

Miss  Farrar  laughed,  and  Lathrop  moved 
toward  her. 

"I  deserve  worse  than  being  laughed  at,"  he 
said.  "I  made  a  strategic  mistake.  I  should 
not  have  tried  to  capture  you  and  an  army 
corps  at  the  same  time." 

"You,"  she  taunted,  "who  were  always  so 
keen  on  soldiering,  to  be  taken  prisoner,"  she 

290 


PEACE  MANOEUVRES 

lowered  her  voice,  "  and  by  men  like  that ! 
Aren't  they  funny?"  she  whispered,  "and  East 
Side  and  Tenderloin !  It  made  me  homesick  to 
hear  them !  I  think  when  not  in  uniform  the 
little  one  drives  a  taxicab,  and  the  big  one  is  a 
guard  on  the  elevated." 

"They    certainly    are    very    'New    York/ ' 
assented  Lathrop,  "and  very  tough." 

"I  thought,"  whispered  Miss  Farrar,  "those 
from  New  York  with  the  Red  Army  were  picked 
men." 

"What  does  it  matter?"  exclaimed  Lathrop. 
"It's  just  as  humiliating  to  be  captured  by  a 
hall-room  boy  as  by  a  mere  millionaire !  I  can't 
insist  on  the  invading  army  being  entirely 
recruited  from  Harvard  graduates." 

The  two  Reds  either  had  reached  a  decision 
or  agreed  that  they  could  not  agree,  for  they 
ceased  whispering,  and  crossed  to  where  Lathrop 
stood. 

"We  been  talking  over  your  case,"  explained 
the  sergeant,  "and  we  see  we  are  in  wrong.  We 
see  we  made  a  mistake  in  taking  you  prisoner. 
We  had  ought  to  shot  you  dead.  So  now  we're 
going  to  shoot  you  dead." 

"You  can't!"  objected  Lathrop.  "It's  too 
late.  You  should  have  thought  of  that  sooner." 

"I  know,"  admitted  the  sergeant,  "but  a  pris 
oner  is  a  hell  of  a  nuisance.  If  you  got  a 

291 


PEACE  MANOEUVRES 

prisoner  to  look  after  you  can't  do  your  own 
work;  you  got  to  keep  tabs  on  him.  And  there 
ain't  nothing  in  it  for  the  prisoner,  neither.  If 
we  take  you,  you'll  have  to  tramp  all  the  way 
to  our  army,  and  all  the  way  back.  But,  if 
you're  dead,  how  different!  You  ain't  no 
bother  to  anybody.  You  got  a  half-holiday  all 
to  yourself,  and  you  can  loaf  around  the  camp, 
so  dead  that  they  can't  make  you  work,  but  not 
so  dead  you  can't  smoke  or  eat."  The  sergeant 
smiled  ingratiatingly.  In  a  tempting  manner 
he  exhibited  his  rifle.  "Better  be  dead,"  he 
urged. 

"I'd  like  to  oblige  you,"  said  Lathrop,  "but 
it's  against  the  rules.     You  cant  shoot  a  pris 


oner." 


The  rat-faced  soldier  uttered  an  angry  excla 
mation.  "To  hell  with  the  rules!"  he  cried. 
"We  can't  waste  time  on  him.  Turn  him 
loose!" 

The  older  man  rounded  on  the  little  one 
savagely.  The  tone  in  which  he  addressed  him 
was  cold,  menacing,  sinister.  His  words  were 
simple,  but  his  eyes  and  face  were  heavy  with 
warning. 

"Who  is  running  this?"  he  asked. 

The  little  soldier  muttered,  and  shuffled  away. 
From  under  the  brim  of  his  campaign  hat,  his 
eyes  cast  furtive  glances  up  and  down  the  road* 

292 


PEACE  MAN(EUVRES 

As  though  anxious  to  wipe  out  the  effect  of  his 
comrade's  words,  the  sergeant  addressed  Lathrop 
suavely  and  in  a  tone  of  conciliation. 

"You  see,"  he  explained,  "him  and  me  are 
scouts.  We're  not  supposed  to  waste  time  tak 
ing  prisoners.  So,  we'll  set  you  free."  He 
waved  his  hand  invitingly  toward  the  bicycle. 
"You  can  go!"  he  said. 

To  Miss  Farrar's  indignation  Lathrop,  instead 
of  accepting  his  freedom,  remained  motionless. 

"  I  can't !"  he  said.  "  I'm  on  post.  My  cap 
tain  ordered  me  to  stay  in  front  of  this  house 
until  I  was  relieved." 

Miss  Farrar,  amazed  at  such  duplicity,  ex 
claimed  aloud: 

"He  is  not  on  post !"  she  protested.  "He's  a 
scout !  He  wants  to  stop  here,  because — because 
— he's  hungry.  I  wouldn't  have  let  you  take 
him  prisoner,  if  I  had  not  thought  you  would 
take  him  away  with  you."  She  appealed  to  the 
sergeant.  "Please  take  him  away,"  she  begged. 

The  sergeant  turned  sharply  upon  his  prisoner. 

"Why  don't  you  do  what  the  lady  wants?" 
he  demanded. 

"Because  I've  got  to  do  what  my  captain 
wants,"  returned  Lathrop,  "and  he  put  me  on 
sentry-go,  in  front  of  this  house." 

With  the  back  of  his  hand,  the  sergeant  fret 
fully  scraped  the  three  days'  growth  on  his  chin*. 

293 


PEACE  MANCEUVRES 

" There's  nothing  to  it,"  he  exclaimed,  "but 
for  to  take  him  with  us.  When  we  meet  some 
more  Reds  we'll  turn  him  over.  Fall  in!"  he 
commanded. 

"No !"  protested  Lathrop.  "I  don't  want  to 
be  turned  over.  I've  got  a  much  better  plan. 
You  don't  want  to  be  bothered  with  a  prisoner. 
/  don't  want  to  be  a  prisoner.  As  you  say,  I 
am  better  dead.  You  can't  shoot  a  prisoner, 
but  if  he  tries  to  escape  you  can.  I'll  try  to 
escape.  You  shoot  me.  Then  I  return  to  my 
own  army,  and  report  myself  dead.  That  ends 
your  difficulty  and  saves  me  from  a  court- 
martial.  They  can't  court-martial  a  corpse." 

The  face  of  the  sergeant  flashed  with  relief 
and  satisfaction.  In  his  anxiety  to  rid  himself 
of  his  prisoner,  he  lifted  the  bicycle  into  the  road 
and  held  it  in  readiness. 

"You're  all  right!"  he  said,  heartily.  "You 
can  make  your  getaway  as  quick  as  you  like." 

But  to  the  conspiracy  Miss  Farrar  refused  to 
lend  herself. 

"How  do  you  know,"  she  demanded,  "that  he 
will  keep  his  promise?  He  may  not  go  back  to 
his  own  army.  He  can  be  just  as  dead  on  my 
lawn  as  anywhere  else!" 

Lathrop  shook  his  head  at  her  sadly. 

"How  you  wrong  me !"  he  protested.  "How 
dare  you  doubt  the  promise  of  a  dying  man? 

294 


PEACE  MANOEUVRES 

These  are  really  my  last  words,  and  I  wish  I 
could  think  of  something  to  say  suited  to  the 
occasion,  but  the  presence  of  strangers  prevents." 

He  mounted  his  bicycle.  :  'If  I  had  a  thou 
sand  lives  to  give,' '  he  quoted  with  fervor, 
"'I'd  give  them  all  to—'"  he  hesitated,  and 
smiled  mournfully  on  Miss  Farrar.  Seeing  her 
flushed  and  indignant  countenance,  he  added, 
with  haste,  "to  the  Commonwealth  of  Massa 
chusetts!" 

As  he  started  on  his  wheel  slowly  down  the 
path,  he  turned  to  the  sergeant. 

"I'm  escaping,"  he  explained.  The  Reds, 
with  an  enthusiasm  undoubtedly  genuine,  raised 
their  rifles,  and  the  calm  of  the  Indian  summer 
was  shattered  by  two  sharp  reports.  Lathrop, 
looking  back  over  his  shoulder,  waved  one  hand 
reassuringly. 

"Death  was  instantaneous,"  he  called.  He 
bent  his  body  over  the  handle-bar,  and  they 
watched  him  disappear  rapidly  around  the  turn 
in  the  road. 

Miss  Farrar  sighed  with  relief. 

"  Thank  you  very  much,"  he  said. 

As  though  signifying  that  to  oblige  a  woman  he 
would  shoot  any  number  of  prisoners,  the  ser 
geant  raised  his  hat. 

"Don't  mention  it,  lady,"  he  said.  "I  seen 
he  was  annoying  you,  and  that's  why  I  got  rid 

295 


PEACE   MANOEUVRES 

of  him.  Some  of  them  amateur  soldiers,  as 
soon  as  they  get  into  uniform,  are  too  fresh. 
He  took  advantage  of  you  because  your  folks 
were  away  from  home.  But  don't  you  worry 
about  that.  I'll  guard  this  house  until  your 
folks  get  back." 

Miss  Farrar  protested  warmly. 

"Really!"  she  exclaimed;  "I  need  no  one  to 
guard  me." 

But  the  soldier  was  obdurate.  He  motioned 
his  comrade  down  the  road. 

"Watch  at  the  turn,"  he  ordered;  "he  may 
come  back  or  send  some  of  the  Blues  to  take  us. 
PII  stay  here  and  protect  the  lady." 

Again  Miss  Farrar  protested,  but  the  sergeant, 
in  a  benign  and  fatherly  manner,  smiled  ap 
provingly.  Seating  himself  on  the  grass  outside 
the  fence,  he  leaned  his  back  against  the  gate 
post,  apparently  settling  himself  for  conversa 
tion. 

"Now,  how  long  might  it  have  been,"  he 
asked,  "before  we  showed  up,  that  you  seen 
us?" 

"I  saw  you,"  Miss  Farrar  said,  "when  Mr. — 
when  that  bicycle  scout  was  talking  to  me.  I 
saw  the  red  bands  on  your  hats  among  the 
bushes." 

The  sergeant  appeared  interested. 

"But  why  didn't  you  let  on  to  him?" 
296 


PEACE  MAN(EUVRES 

Miss  Farrar  laughed  evasively. 

"Maybe  because  I  am  from  New  York,  too," 
she  said.  "Perhaps  I  wanted  to  see  soldiers 
from  my  city  take  a  prisoner." 

They  were  interrupted  by  the  sudden  appear 
ance  of  the  smaller  soldier.  On  his  rat-like 
countenance  was  written  deep  concern. 

"When  I  got  to  the  turn,"  he  began,  breath 
lessly,  "I  couldn't  see  him.  Where  did  he  go? 
Did  he  double-back  through  the  woods,  or  did 
he  have  time  to  ride  out  of  sight  before  I  got 
there?" 

The  reappearance  of  his  comrade  affected  the 
sergeant  strangely.  He  sprang  to  his  feet,  his 
under  jaw  protruding  truculently,  his  eyes 
flashing  with  anger. 

"Get  back,"  he  snarled.  "Do  what  I  told 
you!" 

Under  his  breath  he  muttered  words  that,  to 
Miss  Farrar,  were  unintelligible.  The  little  rat- 
like  man  nodded,  and  ran  from  them  down  the 
road.  The  sergeant  made  an  awkward  gesture 
of  apology. 

"Excuse  me,  lady,"  he  begged,  "but  it  makes 
me  hot  when  them  rookies  won't  obey  orders. 
You  see,"  he  ran  on  glibly,  "I'm  a  reg'Iar;  served 
three  years  in  the  Philippines,  and  I  can't  get 
used  to  not  having  my  men  do  what  I  say." 

Miss  Farrar  nodded,  and  started  toward  the 
297 


PEACE  MANOEUVRES 

house.     The  sergeant  sprang  quickly  across  the 
road. 

"Have  you  ever  been  in  the  Philippines, 
Miss?"  he  called.  "It's  a  great  country." 

Miss  Farrar  halted  and  shook  her  head.  She 
was  considering  how  far  politeness  required  of 
her  to  entertain  unshaven  militiamen,  who 
insisted  on  making  sentries  of  themselves  at  her 
front  gate. 

The  sergeant  had  plunged  garrulously  into  a 
confusing  description  of  the  Far  East.  He  was 
clasping  the  pickets  of  the  fence  with  his  hands, 
and  his  eyes  were  fastened  on  hers.  He  lacked 
neither  confidence  nor  vocabulary,  and  not  for 
an  instant  did  his  tongue  hesitate  or  his  eyes 
wander,  and  yet  in  his  manner  there  was  nothing 
at  which  she  could  take  offense.  He  appeared 
only  amiably  vain  that  he  had  seen  much  of 
the  world,  and  anxious  to  impress  that  fact  upon 
another.  Miss  Farrar  was  bored,  but  the  man 
gave  her  no  opportunity  to  escape.  In  conse 
quence  she  was  relieved  when  the  noisy  approach 
of  an  automobile  brought  him  to  an  abrupt 
pause.  Coming  rapidly  down  the  road  was  a 
large  touring-car,  filled  with  men  in  khaki. 
The  sergeant  gave  one  glance  at  it,  and  leaped 
across  the  road,  taking  cover  behind  the  stone 
wall.  Instantly  he  raised  his  head  above  it 
and  shook  his  fist  at  Miss  Farrar. 

298 


PEACE  MANOEUVRES 

"  Don't  tell,"  he  commanded.  "  They're  Blues 
in  that  car !  Don't  tell !"  Again  he  sank  from 
sight. 

Miss  Farrar  now  was  more  than  bored,  she 
was  annoyed.  Why  grown  men  should  play  at 
war  so  seriously  she  could  not  understand.  It 
was  absurd!  She  no  longer  would  remain  a 
party  to  it;  and,  lest  the  men  in  the  car  might 
involve  her  still  further,  she  retreated  hastily 
toward  the  house.  As  she  opened  the  door  the 
car  halted  at  the  gate,  and  voices  called  to  her, 
but  she  pretended  not  to  hear  them,  and  con 
tinued  up  the  stairs.  Behind  her  the  car  passed 
noisily  on  its  way. 

She  mounted  the  stairs,  and  crossing  a  landing 
moved  down  a  long  hall,  at  the  further  end  of 
which  was  her  bedroom.  The  hall  was  un- 
carpeted,  but  the  tennis  shoes  she  wore  made  no 
sound,  nor  did  the  door  of  her  bedroom  when  she 
pushed  it  open. 

On  the  threshold  Miss  Farrar  stood  quite 
still.  A  swift,  sinking  nausea  held  her  in  a 
vise.  Her  instinct  was  to  scream  and  run,  but 
her  throat  had  tightened  and  gone  dry,  and  her 
limbs  trembled.  Opposite  the  door  was  her 
dressing-table,  and  reflected  in  its  mirror  were 
the  features  and  figure  of  the  rat-like  soldier. 
His  back  was  toward  her.  With  one  hand  he 
swept  the  dressing-table.  The  other,  •*  hanging 

299 


PEACE  MANOEUVRES 

al  his  side,  held  a  revolver.  In  a  moment  the 
panic  into  which  Miss  Farrar  had  been  thrown 
passed.  Her  breath  and  blood  returned,  and, 
intent  only  on  flight,  she  softly  turned.  On 
the  instant  the  rat-faced  one  raised  his  eyes, 
saw  her  reflected  in  the  mirror,  and  with  an 
oath,  swung  toward  her.  He  drew  the  revolver 
close  to  his  cheek,  and  looked  at  her  down  the 
barrel.  "Don't  move!"  he  whispered;  "don't 
scream!  Where  are  the  jewels?" 

Miss  Farrar  was  not  afraid  of  the  revolver 
or  of  the  man.  She  did  not  believe  either  would 
do  her  harm.  The  idea  of  both  the  presence  of 
the  man  in  her  room,  and  that  any  one  should 
dare  to  threaten  her  was  what  filled  her  with 
repugnance.  As  the  warm  blood  flowed  again 
through  her  body  her  spirit  returned.  She  was 
no  longer  afraid.  She  was,  instead,  indignant, 
furious. 

With  one  step  she  was  in  the  room,  leaving  the 
road  to  the  door  open. 

"Get  out  of  here,"  she  commanded. 

The  little  man  snarled,  and  stamped  the  floor. 
He  shoved  the  gun  nearer  to  her. 

"The  jewels,  damn  you !"  he  whispered.  "Do 
you  want  me  to  blow  your  fool  head  off?  Where 
are  the  jewels?" 

"Jewels?"  repeated  Miss  Farrar.  "I  have 
no  jewels  I" 

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PEACE  MANCEUVRES 

"You  lie!"  shrieked  the  little  man.  "He 
said  the  house  was  full  of  jewels.  We  heard 
him.  He  said  he  would  stay  to  guard  the 
jewels." 

Miss  Farrar  recognized  his  error.  She  remem 
bered  Lathrop's  jest,  and  that  it  had  been  made 
while  the  two  men  were  within  hearing,  behind 
the  stone  wall. 

"  It  was  a  joke ! "  she  cried.  "  Leave  at  once ! " 
She  backed  swiftly  toward  the  open  window  that 
looked  upon  the  road.  "Or  I'll  call  your 
sergeant!" 

"  If  you  go  near  that  window  or  scream,"  whis 
pered  the  rat-like  one,  "I'll  shoot!" 

A  heavy  voice,  speaking  suddenly  from  the 
doorway,  shook  Miss  Farrar's  jangled  nerves 
into  fresh  panic. 

"She  won't  scream,"  said  the  voice. 

In  the  door  Miss  Farrar  saw  the  bulky  form 
of  the  sergeant,  blocking  her  escape. 

Without  shifting  his  eyes  from  Miss  Farrar, 
the  man  with  the  gun  cursed  breathlessly  at  the 
other.  "Why  didn't  you  keep  her  away?"  he 
panted. 

"An  automobile  stopped  in  front  of  the  gate," 
explained  the  sergeant.  "  Have  you  got  them  ?  " 
he  demanded. 

"  No ! "  returned  the  other.  "  Nothing !  She 
won't  tell  where  they  are." 

301 


PEACE  MANOEUVRES 

The  older  man  laughed.  "Oh,  yes,  she'll 
tell,"  he  whispered.  His  voice  was  still  low  and 
suave,  but  it  carried  with  it  the  weight  of  a 
threat,  and  the  threat,  although  unspoken, 
filled  Miss  Farrar  with  alarm.  Her  eyes,  wide 
with  concern,  turned  fearfully  from  one  man 
to  the  other. 

The  sergeant  stretched  his  hands  toward  her, 
the  fingers  working  and  making  clutches  in  the 
air.  The  look  in  his  eyes  was  quite  terrifying. 

"If  you  don't  tell,"  he  said  slowly,  'Til  choke 
it  out  of  you!" 

If  his  intention  was  to  frighten  the  girl,  he 
succeeded  admirably.  With  her  hands  clasped 
to  her  throat,  Miss  Farrar  sank  against  the  wall. 
She  saw  no  chance  of  escape.  The  way  to  the 
door  was  barred,  and  should  she  drop  to  the 
garden  below,  from  the  window,  before  she  could 
reach  the  road  the  men  would  overtake  her. 
Even  should  she  reach  the  road,  the  house 
nearest  was  a  half-mile  distant. 

The  sergeant  came  close,  his  fingers  opening 
and  closing  in  front  of  her  eyes.  He  raised  his 
voice  to  a  harsh,  bellowing  roar.  "  I'm  going  to 
make  you  tell!"  he  shouted.  "I'm  going  to 
choke  it  out  of  you !" 

Although  she  was  alone  in  the  house,  although 
on  every  side  the  pine  woods  encompassed  her, 
Miss  Farrar  threw  all  her  strength  into  one  long, 

302 


PEACE  MANOEUVRES 

piercing  cry  for  help.  And  upon  the  instant  it 
was  answered.  From  the  hall  came  the  swift 
rush  of  feet.  The  rat-like  one  swung  toward  it. 
From  his  revolver  came  a  report  that  shook  the 
room,  a  flash  and  a  burst  of  smoke,  and  through 
it  Miss  Farrar  saw  Lathrop  hurl  himself.  He 
dived  at  the  rat-like  one,  and  as  on  the  foot-ball 
field  he  had  been  taught  to  stop  a  runner,  flung 
his  arm?  around  the  other's  knees.  The  legs  of 
the  man  shot  from  under  him,  his  body  cut  a 
half-circle  through  the  air,  and  the  part  of  his 
anatomy  to  first  touch  the  floor  was  his  head. 
The  floor  was  of  oak,  and  the  impact  gave  forth 
a  crash  like  the  smash  of  a  base-ball  bat,  when 
it  drives  the  ball  to  centre  field.  The  man  did 
not  move.  He  did  not  even  groan.  In  his 
relaxed  fingers  the  revolver  lay,  within  reach 
of  Lathrop's  hand.  He  fell  upon  it  and,  still 
on  his  knees,  pointed  it  at  the  sergeant. 

"You're  my  prisoner,  now !"  he  shouted  cheer 
fully.  "Hands  up!" 

The  man  raised  his  arms  slowly,  as  if  he  were 
lifting  heavy  dumb-bells. 

"The  lady  called  for  help,"  he  said.  "I  came 
to  help  her." 

"No!  No!"  protested  the  girl.  "He  did 
not  help  me !  He  said  he  would  choke  me  if  I 
didn't " 

"He  said  he  would — what!"  bellowed  La- 

303 


PEACE  MANOEUVRES 

tlirop.  He  leaped  to  his  feet,  and  sent  the  gun 
spinning  through  the  window.  He  stepped 
toward  the  man  gingerly,  on  the  balls  of  his 
feet,  like  one  walking  on  ice.  The  man  seemed 
to  know  what  that  form  of  approach  threatened, 
for  he  threw  his  arms  into  a  position  of  defense. 

"You  bully!"  whispered  Lathrop.  "You 
coward!  You  choke  women,  do  you?'* 

He  shifted  from  one  foot  to  the  other,  his  body 
balancing  forward,  his  arms  swinging  limply  in 
front  of  him.  With  his  eyes,  he  seemed  to  un 
dress  the  man,  as  though  choosing  a  place  to 
strike. 

"I  made  the  same  mistake  you  did,"  he 
taunted.  "  I  should  have  killed  you  first.  Now 
I  am  going  to  do  it!" 

He  sprang  at  the  man,  his  chin  still  sunk  on 
his  chest,  but  with  his  arms  swinging  like  the 
spokes  of  a  wheel.  His  opponent  struck  back 
heavily,  violently,  but  each  move  of  his  arm 
seemed  only  to  open  up  some  vulnerable  spot. 
Blows  beat  upon  his  chin,  upon  his  nose,  his 
eyes;  blows  jabbed  him  in  the  ribs,  drove  his 
breath  from  his  stomach,  ground  his  teeth 
together,  cut  the  flesh  from  his  cheeks.  He 
sank  to  his  knees,  with  his  arms  clasping  his 
head. 

"Get  up!"  roared  Lathrop.  "Stand  up  to 
it,  you  coward!" 

3°4 


PEACE  MANCEUVRES 

But  the  man  had  no  idea  of  standing  up  to 
it.  Howling  with  pain,  he  scrambled  toward  the 
door,  and  fled  staggering  down  the  hall. 

At  the  same  moment  the  automobile  that  a 
few  minutes  before  had  passed  up  the  road  came 
limping  to  the  gate,  and  a  half-dozen  men  in 
uniform  sprang  out  of  it.  From  the  window 
Lathrop  saw  them  spread  across  the  lawn  and 
surround  the  house. 

"They've  got  him!"  he  said.  He  pointed  to 
the  prostrate  figure  on  the  floor.  "He  and  the 
other  one,"  he  explained,  breathlessly,  "are 
New  York  crooks !  They  have  been  looting  in 
the  wake  of  the  Reds,  disguised  as  soldiers.  I 
knew  they  weren't  even  amateur  soldiers  by 
the  mistakes  in  their  make-up,  and  I  made  that 
bluff  of  riding  away  so  as  to  give  them  time  to 
show  what  the  game  was.  Then,  that  provost 
guard  in  the  motor  car  stopped  me,  and  when 
they  said  who  they  were  after,  I  ordered  them 
back  here.  But  they  had  a  flat  tire,  and  my 
bicycle  beat  them." 

In  his  excitement  he  did  not  notice  that  the 
girl  was  not  listening,  that  she  was  very  pale, 
that  she  was  breathing  quickly,  and  trembling. 

"I'll  go  tell  them,"  he  added,  "that  the  other 
one  they  want  is  up  here." 

Miss  Farrar's  strength  instantly  returned. 

With  a  look  of  terror  at  the  now  groaning 


PEACE  MANOEUVRES 

figure  on  the  floor,  she  sprang  toward  Lathrop, 
with  both  hands  clutching  him  by  his  sleeves. 

"You  will  not!"  she  commanded.  "You  will 
not  leave  me  alone!" 

Appealingly  she  raised  her  face  to  his  startled 
countenance.  With  a  burst  of  tears  she  threw 
herself  into  his  arms.  "  I'm  afraid ! "  she  sobbed. 
"  Don't  leave  me.  Please,  no  matter  what  I  say, 
never  leave  me  again!" 

Between  bewilderment  and  joy,  the  face  of 
Lathrop  was  unrecognizable.  As  her  words 
reached  him,  as  he  felt  the  touch  of  her  body 
in  his  arms,  and  her  warm,  wet  cheek  against 
his  own,  he  drew  a  deep  sigh  of  content,  and 
then,  fearfully  and  tenderly,  held  her  close. 

After  a  pause,  in  which  peace  came  to  all  the 
world,  he  raised  his  head. 

"Don't  worry!"  he  said.  "You  can  bet  I 
won't  leave  you!" 


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